


Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories - Part One

by Mad_Hatter1331



Series: Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Basically Canon except for the last episode, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Doctor John Watson, During Canon, Episode Related, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM), How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, My First Fanfic, Original Character-centric, POV Original Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, What If Eurus Had a Twin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 126,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Hatter1331/pseuds/Mad_Hatter1331
Summary: What if Eurus Holmes had a twin sister?Iris Moretti has a brilliant memory. With a Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory, Iris can remember everything that's ever happened to her since she was six. But what she can't remember is what happened before, as Iris has never known her true family. Bouncing around foster homes in America all her life, Iris can't help but wonder who her birth parents are, or how she ended up the way she is.As a young adult searching for answers, battling with her memory, and feeling stagnant in life, Iris wonders what will be next. A lead from her private investigator sends Iris to London, in hopes of following a very thin thread of hope. She packs up everything and moves, determined to follow the tiny chance she has of knowing who she is. That is, until she meets the two men living above her in 221B. Swept up in the adventures of her new neighbors, Iris finds friends, family, and herself.
Series: Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130966
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!
> 
> I have never done anything like this before. Ever. I had this idea pop into my head and I started fleshing it out in my boredom. Basically, I've created an OC and dropped her into the universe of Sherlock and John, and she gets brought along for their adventures as she navigates her own storyline. All the events/dialogue follow the BBC series, and (I hope) you do not have to have seen the show to follow along (but lots of easter eggs and connections if you do!)
> 
> Part 1 is up until The Reichenbach Fall, Part 2 is through until the end. Part 1 is complete, with Part 2 in active progress.
> 
> I also probably have spelling/grammar mistakes, feel free to point them out. I haven't shared this with anyone yet because I'm scared so I thought I'd share with a bunch of strangers first... Let me know what you think!

“Iris, please just stop and let’s rethink this.” Sam pleads from the living room.

“No Sam, I’ve made up my mind, I’m going. My flight is booked, I’m not changing my mind.” Iris calls out, not stopping as she continues to pack.

Another sweater folded and tossed into the open suitcase on her bed, and Iris turns her attention to a modest set of drawers. She tosses socks and underwear from her spot across the small room, slamming the mahogany drawer lightly behind her. 

“Iris, come on, you really are just going to up and leave?” Sam moves closer to the small kitchen area of Iris’ New York City studio apartment, arms crossed.

“Yes, I finally have a lead, Sam. Years of searching for something that might get me closer to my birth family, and if there’s a chance they’re in London, then that’s where I’m going.”

Iris moves to zip up her suitcase, righting it and setting the wheels on the floor. She slides a smaller carry on over the handle and does a last look around the room. A handful of boxes litter the tiny apartment.

_Moving in, cardboard boxes askew, fresh paint. A cheap bottle of champagne spilled all over the floor, laughing with Sam as they clean it up._ Memories come flashing to the forefront of Iris’ mind, but she shakes her head, trying to stay focused. 

“It’s not much of a lead, it’s barely anything.” Sam retorts, nearly rolling his eyes in distress. “It’s a name of a guy who might know something that might lead to something else.”

“It’s more than I had last month, which is more than I’ve had in the last two years.”

“What about your job at the lab, your friends here, me?” Sam tries to sound outraged, but it’s clear in his tone the hurt of it all.

Iris turns fully to Sam and takes a few steps to close the distance between them. 

“Sam, you know you are the closest thing to family I have. I’d have never survived as much as I have in life without you. As far as I’m concerned, you are, and will always be, my brother. You will always be family.” 

She pauses and looks Sam in the eyes. _A light green house, second hand skateboards and jump ropes in a beat up container. Sam’s preteen face sticking his tongue out, before blowing the candles out on a birthday cake. Flashes of pouring down rain, sitting on a dark bus stop, backpack in hand. Sam running up and convincing her to come back._ Putting her hands in the pockets of her light blue cardigan, Iris shrugs off the memories.

“But if there’s a chance to find my birth parents, to find out where I was born and how I ended up the way I am, then I have to do everything I possibly can to find out. I thought I could make peace with the unknown, come up with some story to satisfy myself and move on with my life. But I can’t.” 

_A dark alley, strange people she doesn’t recognize. A small bag of white powder pushed in her hand quickly. Blackness. Bright, sallow hospital lights, Sam’s concerned face._ Iris forcibly shakes her head and fiddles with the bracelet on her wrist. Never again. She begins to speak again, only to bombarded with different, older memories.

_A plane flight, her pink and purple shoes light up as she bounces in her seat, the booster chair rocking slightly beneath her. A bright blue Carebear falls from her hands and a nice lady in a dark green suit next to her picks it up and hands it back._ A pain in her forehead causes Iris to wince, angry that they aren’t more fully formed memories.

“These flashes of the fragments of my memory haunt me. There’s more that I don’t remember, there’s a family there, there has to be.” Iris moves past Sam into the small kitchen area, checking her bag for her phone and passport, checking that all is in order.

“And what if there isn’t? What if it all just turns up as a dead end and you’re left heartbroken?” Sam worries, following her a few steps.

Iris pauses before turning back to look at Sam. “Then I will at least have an answer. A true, black and white answer. That’s all I want, whatever that answer is. They could be dead or they could want absolutely no contact, but until I hear from every lead and eventually have nothing else to go on, I’m going to keep trying.” 

“Do you have to leave everything behind though? I mean why not just go visit and keep your place here, you know I would help you with rent.” Sam’s tactic shift heartens Iris, knowing he’s only trying to make her stay because he cares about her. She reaches up and puts both hands on Sam’s biceps, squeezing gently. 

“I know you would, and I’m grateful, but... there’s been this feeling inside me for some time now that this is not where I’m meant to be. I don’t really know how to describe it, other than it’s like a pull from somewhere deep in me. This scrap of info is the closest thing to right that I’ve felt in a long while. I have to leave everything behind here or else it’ll pull on me to come back even if I haven’t found all my answers. Also, why pay for a place I’m not in? My job was just to keep my boredom at bay, I never saw myself there long term. Just a chemistry geek passing the time, waiting for the questions of her past to finally be answered. And now they might be.”

Sam sighs dejectedly, wrapping Iris in a hug. She accepts the hug and they stand there in her nearly empty apartment. Save for her empty bed, dresser, couch, and dining table, there are only the few boxes and suitcases. 

“Hannah said she would take my furniture and sell what she can or give away the rest, and Lily is taking the rest of the boxes to Goodwill when she goes to see her parents and can borrow their car before closing things out with my landlord.”

Sam lets go of Iris and looks around, the two standing shoulder to shoulder. Iris takes his elbow in her hands and leans into his shoulder. They stand in silence for a few moments before Iris inhales and steps away, checking her watch. 

“Well, I should probably look at getting a taxi, my flight is in a couple hours.”

“I can’t believe an apartment you’ve lived in for nearly three years can clear out in only a few days.” Sam reaches up to rub the back of his neck. Iris chuckles.

“Well when my PI told me he had a lead it sort of set everything in motion. Sandra said her friend’s sister in London has a flat I can rent, it’ll be cheap enough for me to stay in without blowing my savings too fast. My boss at the lab even hooked me up with a potential job at a lab in London, so that’ll help with a longer visa, so that’s covered. I’m even in contact with a PI there who’s been talking with my guy, so he knows what’s been happening. All it took was packing things up and purging what I really didn’t need. I have the important things in my couple of suitcases, and the rest really doesn’t matter. I think I’ve been waiting for this for a while now, some clue to send me somewhere, and now here I am.”

“Here you are. I’m going to miss the hell out of you. Mom won’t like it when she has her big foster family reunion dinners and you aren’t there.” Sam frowns.

“Sandra knows this is what I have to do. But I will miss you all terribly. Thank goodness for technology though, right? We can call and text, I’ll get a great international plan and it’ll be like I never left.” Iris tries to cheer him up.

Sam smiles a hollow smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He reaches up and runs a hand through Iris’ dark brunette hair, a familial tender touch that Iris leans into, closing her bright blue eyes.

_Standing on the porch crying over her first real heartbreak, Sam repeats the same gesture. Flash to the family dog dying and, again, Sam there with his hand in her hair, reassuring her that everything was going to be okay._ A dozen more memories flash before her eyes. The emotion overwhelms Iris and she begins to cry, wrapping herself into another hug. 

“I’ll always be here for you Iris, forever and always.”

“Forever and always.” Iris repeats.

Iris straightens herself up, wiping tears off her pale cheeks. She smiles softly, reaching for her black messenger bag and two rolling suitcases. Sam opens the door for her to step out, and helps Iris downstairs out to the street. 

Iris hands her key to Sam on the curb, while the taxi driver gets out to pop his trunk open and start loading in her suitcases. Sam takes it, adds it to his keychain and pockets them. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Iris. Whatever it is, I really hope you find it.”

“Thank you, Sam. I hope so too. I’ll call you when I land, okay? And give you my address wherever I end up.” Iris and Sam hug one final time, and Sam closes the car door for her, waving as she grows further and further away down the street.

In the taxi alone, Iris pulls out her notebook, detaching the pen from its clip on the side. She undoes the small elastic string and opens it, flipping through a few pages. Iris reaches up for the gold pendant around her neck, fidgeting with the small nameplate, eyes glancing over her notes. 

An address to a small jewelry store outside of Central London, an old man’s name and possible phone number to contact. Dates and model numbers of similar pendants litter the page, along with a name and address: Mrs. Martha Hudson, 221C Baker Street, London.

Looking up from her notebook and out the taxi window, Iris finally feels like she’s heading in the right direction, even though she has no clue what’s waiting for her when she finally gets there. Maybe it’s answers, maybe it’s heartbreak, but the excitement in going for it will be worth it all, somehow.  



	2. A Study in Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are! Jumping in officially to the world of Sherlock! As in the initial notes/summary, you do not need to have watched the corresponding episode to understand the plot of each chapter, but if you have seen them then some bits will make a tad more sense!
> 
> Please be kind with spelling/grammar errors, I know there are probably a handful. Also, I'm from America so this has not been 'Brit-picked' but also Iris grew up in America so with the point of view I'm going for I think it works... but let me know!

A large black door looms before Iris, golden plates reading “221B” hang above an oblong knocker. Three raps and Iris takes a step away, pulling her woolen coat closer around herself. An older woman opens the door. She is short in stature but exudes warmth from her smile to her kind eyes. A soft looking cardigan hangs on her small frame, grey hair pinned back in a neat up do. 

“How can I help you?”

“Mrs. Hudson? I’m Iris Moretti.” Iris introduces herself, the old woman smiling wide.

“Oh yes dear, please come in out of that cold.” She steps aside for Iris to enter, closing the heavy door behind them. In the small entry way Iris notices a staircase leading up and a couple of end tables holding various knick knack decorations.

Iris unbuttons and removes her coat in the warmth of the entryway, folding it over her arm to readjust her messenger bag on her shoulder. 

“Thank you again, so much, for letting me rent out one of your flats Mrs. Hudson.”

“Of course, of course, when my sister said she knew someone who needed a place I couldn’t resist. I’ve been trying to rent out the whole building for a while now, I have two more rooms upstairs besides this one.” Mrs. Hudson leads Iris to a door on the other side of the staircase, pulling out a ring of keys as she speaks. “I have two gentlemen coming round to look at the upstairs sometime this afternoon, so hopefully they’ll both settle on it.”

“That’ll be nice, having some neighbors to visit with. Oh, thank you.” Iris takes the first few steps down into the flat after Mrs. Hudson holds the door for her.

“Now, it is the basement so it’s not fully refinished, but it’s clean, just a big raggedy on the edges.”

“Raggedy’s fine, I love it for the price it’s at, so that’s perfect for me.” Iris steps fully into the small living room. There is a sofa underneath a beige sheet, and what looks like an arm chair next to it, both pointed at a small fireplace. Across the room is a decent sized kitchenette, equipped with a stove and refrigerator, and a quaint window over the sink. There isn’t much light save for the window by the sofa and the one in the kitchenette, but with some lamps it’ll brighten right up. Mrs. Hudson moves past her towards the small hallway.

“The bedroom is through that door on the right, and the bath is across the way. I went ahead and put up a new shower curtain and found some spare towels in case you need them.”

“Thank you, this looks just great.” Iris goes to pull the sheet off the sofa, revealing a nice floral pattern and soft looking cushions. She bunches up the sheet and sets it aside, grabbing the other one off the arm chair and plopping down in it. “I’ll take it!”  
Mrs. Hudson laughs with a grin and sits down on the sofa near her.

“Oh that’s just wonderful, I’ll get all the paperwork signed for the lease and you’ll be good to go.” Mrs. Hudson looks at the fireplace. “Oh, I have someone coming out to take a look at the fireplace for you, it should be functional but I can’t remember the last time someone used it so I thought better to be safe than sorry.”

Iris nods absentmindedly, taking in her new home.

 _Yellow paint, green shutters on the windows. Gray stucco of the apartment complex. Light blue house with a wraparound porch. The old brick building of her New York apartment._

Memories of all her previous homes flood her mind, and Iris shakes her head slightly to see Mrs. Hudson peering at her inquisitively. 

“You alright my dear? You look a million miles away.”

Iris tries to smile and push away whatever emotions that were attached to her flashes of memory.

“Ah, sorry, happens sometimes. I’m fine, thank you.”

“There should be the fixings for tea in the cupboards, I’m not sure if you drink tea being from America and all, but it can be nice to settle things.”

Iris grins. “I actually love tea, I enjoy coffee but there’s something about tea that I can’t get over. It’s like a hug in a mug.” Iris moves to stand up and go to the kitchen when Mrs. Hudson gets up first.

“Let me, as a welcome to the building.”

“Wow, thank you that’s very kind.” Iris sits back down.

“Just this once dear, I’m not your housekeeper.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be! You’re my landlady, the fact there’s even fixings for tea down here is a treat.” Iris pulls open her bag and fishes out her journal. A fresh page found, Iris goes to work jotting down her thoughts from the long flight to the cramped hotel room she rented so she wouldn’t have to drag her luggage all around London in case the room fell through. 

The two sit for tea, Mrs. Hudson asking about New York and her flight over. They find a nice easy exchange and Iris feels that Mrs. Hudson and her will be good friends, for however long she ends up staying in the area.

Tea finished, Iris gathers up the dishes and places them in the sink, making a mental note of getting some dish soap when she goes out to the shops.

Upstairs, there is a loud whack of the door knocker, and Mrs. Hudson checks her watch. 

“Ah, I bet that’s the gentlemen here to look at the flat upstairs, do excuse me.”

“I’ll actually follow you out.” Iris grabs her coat and bag, following Mrs. Hudson back into the entry way. 

“Oop, can’t forget this now, can we.” Mrs. Hudson takes a key off her ring and hands it to Iris. “Welcome to Baker Street!” Iris grins at the welcome, taking the key and adding it to her own keychain, shifting her small fidget cube over to open the clasp. Mrs. Hudson moves towards the front door to open it, Iris hearing their general greetings from inside.

She has one arm in her coat as a tall man with dark hair wearing a long navy coat and scarf sweeps in, followed by a shorter blonde man wearing a beige sweater and brown leather coat using a cane in his right hand. Iris gets the rest of her coat on as they spot her, the taller man scrutinizing her with a single glance, then nodding with a slight smile.

“Hello there,” Iris nods as she settles her bag on her shoulder. The blonde man gives her a curt nod while the other starts to remove his gloves. Mrs. Hudson moves between them, closer to Iris.

“This is Iris, she just moved into the basement flat below. Iris, this is-”

“Sherlock Holmes, pleasure.” He extends his hand out firmly, Iris reaches out to grasp his hand in a shake. His thin frame stands only an inch or two taller than Iris, long nose and curly hair tousled just out of his face. 

“I’m Iris Moretti, looks like we may be neighbors,” Iris suddenly feels very aware of her American accent, or at least because Sherlock seems to be trying to figure out who she is with each passing glance. 

“John Watson.” John, switches his cane briefly to his left hand to shake hers as well. Iris senses some sort of military background from him, furthered by the cane and straightened shoulders. He’s much shorter than the both of them, and doesn’t seem uncomfortable standing with an injured leg. Iris seems to think that they’ve just met themselves, the two men not quite sure of the other one yet.

“Lovely, well boys the room’s upstairs if you want to go take a look, Iris was just on her way out.” Mrs. Hudson turns to Iris. “I’ll pop by to see you later if you need anything, my phone number is on the small corkboard by your fridge if I’m not around.”

“Great, thanks Mrs. Hudson. I’m just going to go grab the rest of my bags and stop off to pick up a few things, maybe find a bodega or somewhere for a quick bite.” 

“Manhattan or Brooklyn?” Sherlock asks inquisitively, stopping Iris mid step as she was about to move towards the front door. 

“I’m sorry?” Iris knows her accent surely identifies her as an American, but having not lived her entire life in New York, how on earth could this man know the exact city?

“I asked if you were from Manhattan or Brooklyn? I know you’re not from the area originally, but you recently lived there, yes? Come to London to ‘find yourself?’” Sherlock seems unperturbed in his question, like this was a totally normal conclusion to make from shaking Iris’ hand two seconds ago. The blonde man next to him seems to share the same incredulous look as Iris, and she wonders if Sherlock made similar assumptions of him.

Iris narrows her eyes curiously. “Uh, yeah... Manhattan. Washington Heights. Or, used to be, now I live here.” She gestures towards her door. “I’m sorry, but how did you know that?”

Sherlock merely smirks, pocketing his gloves and untying his scarf. 

“The way you carry yourself, your style, the fact you just mentioned a bodega, it’s really quite obvious, is it not?”

“Okay, bodega I’ll give you, but my style?” Iris looks down at her outfit. After changing once she got off the plane, her taupe knee length wool coat with her light wash jeans and burnt orange sweater paired with her favorite pair of low cut brown boots seem relatively normal. 

“Your coat is long, which says you’re used to the cold weather, but your shoes are more stylish so not overdoing it in the cold; they’re comfortable for walking which tends to be of more importance in a city where most folks don’t have cars. You own a leather bag but it’s not an overly expensive designer brand; something you invested in but didn’t break the bank on.”

“And how do you know I’m trying to ‘find myself?’ What if I’m looking for something else?” Iris retorts, disliking the idea of this complete stranger knowing so much about her.

“Why else would an American pick up out of the blue and rent an inexpensive basement flat in a major European city?”

“Huh.” Iris doesn’t quite know what to say. “Well then, thanks for that, uh, enlightening observation... You are right about the shoes though; I once walked 60 blocks straight in these, and my feet never hurt.” She stands on one foot to pick up the other slightly, showing the wear in the sole. 

“Well, there you go.” Sherlock’s scarf is off and in his hands now, John still relatively confused next to him. 

“I hope the flat works out for you two, and maybe I’ll see you around.” Iris says cheerfully, though still very perplexed as to what just happened. John nods his head, smiling slightly while looking her up and down. His gaze resembles Sherlock’s somewhat, though not as astute.

“Yeah, I hope to see you again.” John replies, Iris almost feeling like he’s hitting on her, but she’s had enough of the strange encounter without adding anything else to it. Iris heads for the front door. Sherlock and John take off upstairs, Mrs. Hudson following soon after. Iris stays in the entryway for a bit longer, trying to work out what she thinks of her new potential neighbors. 

Finally she steps out onto the street, hailing a cab to take her back to her hotel. Before she can find a cab, a black car pulls up in front of her. Iris, thinking it’s a mistake of some kind, simply moves forward, looking out to the street for a cab. The car rolls forward and in front of Iris again. Not having any of this nonsense, Iris simply turns on her heel and begins walking briskly towards another main road, in the opposite direction of the black car. 

An hour or so later Iris steps out of the hotel, having gathered all her things and checked out. She waits by the taxi stand, fidgeting with the cube on her keychain, clicking the small light switch on and off. Eventually, a cab arrives, and she helps gather her things into it. 

Iris slides into the seat and is about to give the cabbie directions when it’s suddenly very clear that there is someone else in the backseat with her. Iris recoils and tries to open the door, finding that it is most definitely locked. Pushing the panic down in her voice, she manages to bark out a quick, “Who are you?”

The man leans forward out of the shadow with a small grin on his face. He motions to the cabbie, saying “221B Baker Street please,” and turns back to Iris. He is a bit older than her, seven or eight years give or take, with an elongated nose and dark brown hair. He wears a bespoke suit under his black wool coat, and there is an umbrella sitting against his knee. The man fiddles with its handle while the cab begins to drive away. 

“There’s no need to fear anything Ms. Moretti, I will not harm you. I simply wanted to have a bit of a chat.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name? And why did you hijack my cab?” Iris has pushed herself as far away from this strange man as she can, trying to find the best way she could possibly kick him or steal his umbrella and beat him with it if she needed to. 

“Well, you refused my car earlier and I figured a woman coming from New York City wouldn’t willingly step into a strange vehicle, so I found simply joining you in a car you chose would be better suited.”

“Better suited for what.” Iris asks flatly.

“It seems that you have moved into the same flat as Sherlock Holmes down on Baker Street, is that correct?”

“Seeing as how you already have the specific address I think you already know the answer to that.” Sensing that this man does not seem to be a direct threat to her physical safety at the moment, Iris relaxes slightly. She still keeps an eye on his umbrella, just in case. 

“Ah, yes, it seems I do. Well you see, I am concerned with things as they relate to Sherlock Holmes. And seeing as how you know reside in the same building as him, I thought we may be able to work out some sort of arrangement.”

“Concerned? Why would you be concerned about Sherlock? Also, I just met the man, for not even five minutes, I don’t know who he is or why he’s at Baker Street.”

“Well, consider me a friendly, interested third party. You let me know the happenings of 221B, and I will most certainly make it worth your while.” The man seems pleased with his plan, twirling the tip of the long umbrella on the floor of the cab.

“Does Sherlock know you’re so ‘concerned’ about him?” Major red flags pop up all over Iris’ mind, she pulls back up the image of the tall man in his dark coat wondering who on earth he is if he’s got someone this interested in his whereabouts.

“Sherlock and mine’s relationship is... tenuous at best. He’d probably say I’m his archenemy if you asked.”

Iris snorts at that. “People don’t have archenemies.”

“Ah, yes, well he does enjoy the dramatics. Regardless, it would do me a great favor if you could keep me informed of whatever it is he’s up to. Again, I will most definitely make it worth your while.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re asking me to do this, but I would really appreciate it if you would get the hell out of my cab.”

“Will you think about it at least?” The man taps the umbrella slightly against his knee and Iris adds another idea to her list of ways to attack him with it. 

“If I say yes to thinking about it, will you get out of my cab?”

“Most certainly. Here is a number you can reach me at if you decide to take me up on the offer.” He extends a white business card with only a number written out in dark ink and Iris takes it skeptically. “Sir, please pull over here for a moment.” Somewhere in the middle of London, the cabbie pulls over, and the man turns back to Iris before opening the door. 

“Please do consider my offer, my resources are vast and my interest in Sherlock of great importance.” The man says dramatically, his voice low and determined to convey his goal.

Iris merely nods her head and watches as the peculiar man next to her finally gets out of the cab. The car takes off again, and out the back window Iris sees the same black sedan from earlier pull up and collect the odd man and his umbrella, turning around and speeding off into the late evening.

Iris decides to pull out her phone and investigate her new upstairs neighbor. A quick search on Google takes her to Sherlock’s website, The Science of Deduction. Fascinated, Iris spends the rest of the trip entranced by the idea of how much detail one can learn by merely looking at someone. Iris then realizes that this was how Sherlock made all those deductions about her when they first met. 

Other articles pop up showing how Sherlock has assisted in multiple high profile cases with Scotland Yard, though she doesn’t quite know in what capacity. Half an hour and many website scrolls later, Iris is back at the black door, suitcases in hand, turning back to the cabbie and reaching for her wallet. The cabbie grins.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, your friend paid me before you got in, gave me a nice tip too, have a good night!”

Dumbstruck, Iris simply nods and watches the cabbie drive off. The business card tucked into her jean pocket, Iris collects her bags and starts for the door. Soon another cab pulls up, and out steps Sherlock, same coat and blue scarf from earlier, now carrying a small but very bright pink suitcase. He pays his cabbie and joins Iris on the front stoop.

“Need a hand Ms. Moretti?” Sherlock has the door open and one of her suitcases in his hand, Iris following behind with the other large suitcase and her smaller carry-on. 

“Um, yes, well thank you.” He settles her bag in the foyer, taking off his gloves and putting them in his pocket. “Moving in I see?” Iris motions to the bright pink case at Sherlock’s feet with a short laugh.

He looks down at the case, “Ah yes, that. Not mine, just holding it for a friend.”

“A friend, eh? Well, thanks for the hand getting in.”

Sherlock nods before picking his pink case up again and heading for the stairs

“Actually, Sherlock?” Sherlock stops on the landing and turns back to Iris. She sets her bags down and goes for the business card in her pocket. “I think I met another friend of yours this evening. Or rather, he forced his introduction on me.”

Sherlock, intrigued, leaves the case on the landing and takes the few steps back down to Iris. She notices his bright blue eyes, only a slightly lighter shade than hers, intrigue lit up at her. 

“A friend?” Sherlock asks confusedly.

“Well, he said you actually probably considered him your archenemy.”

“Ahh, yes that sounds more likely.” Sherlock sneers in playful annoyance.

“Wait, you mean you actually have an archenemy? I didn’t think people had those, only on tv or in the movies...”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asks. Iris tries not to be surprised by his straightforwardness and nods. “And what did you say?”

“Well seeing as how he locked me in a cab with no way out, I convinced him to leave by saying I’d think about it. He gave me his card.” Iris hands the small paper over to Sherlock, who inspects all sides of it and gives it a small sniff. Iris tries not to laugh, instead guessing how many deductions he’s made in the five seconds he’s had the card in his hand.

“If you’d like you can say yes and we can split the money while sending him on wild goose chases.” Sherlock offers excitedly.

“I’m not too sure, he didn’t seem like a man you could mess with or try to send off on wild goose chases.”

“You’d be surprised how clever I can be.” Sherlock hands the card back to Iris, while the word ‘clever’ floats across her mind.

 _“Well aren’t you clever” sneers a short pigtailed girl on the playground._ A flash. _“You think you’re so clever why don’t you just go die” a blonde cheerleader shoves Iris into a locker._

Iris inhales sharply with a jolt and realizes her eyes glazed over. She refocuses them quickly to find Sherlock staring at her, much like when they first met. 

“Sorry, um, I think I’d rather say no... I only just got to London, I really don’t want to be making archenemies of my own.” Iris tucks a black lock of hair behind her ear and turns back to her suitcases. “Thanks for the hand getting in.”

“Of course, I understand.” Sherlock watches her curiously, nodding his head and turning back up the stairs as Iris opens her new front door. 

Iris manages to get her things into the flat, and starts to make up the small bedroom. She unpacks the majority of her clothes into the small dresser, realizing she needs a few more hangers than the handful in the closet, adding that to her list. Iris hears the front door open, and the three-legged foot pattern of what she assumes is John returning from wherever he was, listening as he makes his way upstairs. 

Her list growing longer by the hour, Iris decides to head out to one of the drugstores she saw a road or two over on her drive back to the hotel. Iris makes her way up and down each of the tiny aisles, grabbing what she needs and looking for things that could help spruce up the place a bit. Soon she has an armful of bags and makes her way back towards Baker Street. 

As she approaches, Iris notices a gray haired man in a long beige trench coat standing on the front step talking to Mrs. Hudson. Behind him are a gaggle of other people, one with a jacket that says ‘Crime Scene,’ others carrying toolboxes, and various strange items. 

“Mrs. Hudson, I know this is a big inconvenience, but if you could just let us in, this is about Sherlock impeding a murder investigation.” The gray haired man explains, Iris standing off in the shadow of the nearby café awning.

“Detective Inspector, I don’t know what it is you hope to find, but I’m telling you Sherlock did not kill those people.” Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands but won’t budge from the slightly opened door. First the strange man in the cab, and now a murder investigation? This doesn’t sound good.

“I don’t want to force the door open, but I do have a warrant.” A slender brown haired man with a pointy looking face next to him smacks the Detective Inspector on the arm. “Or at least one on the way. We also think Sherlock is hiding evidence from us, and we have a right to search for it.”

Mrs. Hudson seems very wary of letting these people in, but she eventually concedes, stepping aside so they all can head upstairs. Iris steps out from the shadow catching Mrs. Hudson before she shuts the door.

“What’s all this about Mrs. Hudson?” Iris follows her down to the base of the stairs, setting her bags on the floor at her feet. Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands. 

“I’m not quite sure, Sherlock sometimes does work with the police on any unsolved cases they have, but it seems like Detective Inspector Lestrade thinks Sherlock’s hiding something? The boys are out, I don’t know where they’ve gone and I don’t know what to do.” Mrs. Hudson seems almost beside herself. Iris puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s going to be fine, Mrs. Hudson. Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding? Why don’t you come down with me and have some tea? Let them sort it all out and I’m sure it’ll be cleared up in no time.” Mrs. Hudson smiles softly, nodding.

Tea seems to calm down Mrs. Hudson, and they chat while Iris unpacks her findings from the shops. About half an hour goes by before they hear the front door open and realize it’s Sherlock and John in the hallway. Mrs. Hudson jumps up from her seat and leaves, Iris following behind.

“Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs.” Sherlock says proudly, still out of breath from whatever adventure he was just on. Iris follows John with her eyes as he goes back to the front door and opens it, while Mrs. Hudson concernedly closes the distance to Sherlock.

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” 

Sherlock looks between Mrs. Hudson and Iris, confused, but hears footsteps upstairs. He takes off, Iris and Mrs. Hudson following him and John, who suddenly is simply carrying his cane in his hand rather than using it. Sherlock flings the front door to the flat open.

Iris tries to take in everything she’s witnessing, from seeing the upstairs flat for the first time, to the flurry of people opening cupboards and pulling things off of shelves. Iris notices the two big windows that frame the living room area, a desk with two chairs in the center cluttered with books and paper. To her right is a couch and coffee table, to her left a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a fireplace very similar to hers, only bigger in size. The mantel has an array of knick-knacks, the most prominent being a human skull sitting on the far left under the mirror hanging above. Iris wonders who it might have been...

In the black leather chair to the right of the fireplace sits Detective Inspector Lestrade, with the pink case Iris saw Sherlock with earlier in front of his feet. 

“Well, I knew you’d find the case, I’m not stupid.” Lestrade says proudly.

“You can’t just break into my flat.” Sherlock seethes in annoyance.

“You can’t withhold evidence, and I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?” Sherlock demands, motioning to the people around.

“It’s a drugs bust!” Lestrade announces with a grin.

“Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?” John asks, completely baffled. Iris tenses at the idea of drugs in the flat above her, wondering who the hell her two new neighbors really are if their flat is being searched for drugs. 

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.” John announces, Sherlock turning his back to Lestrade to look at John, Iris standing just behind him in the doorway.

“John, you probably want to shut up now.” Sherlock warns quickly. John eyes Sherlock in disbelief.

“But come on.” John seems sure in his thought. They share a look, John trying to figure out what Sherlock means. “No... You?” John asks, Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shut up!” He turns to the room. “I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.” Lestrade counters, Iris stepping forward out of the doorway to see the brown haired man from before offer a haughty little wave from the kitchen.

“Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?” Sherlock roars, the man obviously someone Sherlock severely dislikes. 

“Oh, I volunteered.” Anderson smiles smugly. It seems to be a mutual feeling.

“They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they’re very keen.” Lestrade furthers as a woman comes forward next to Anderson. 

“Are these human eyes?” She asks repulsively. Iris wonders what on earth Sherlock would be doing with eyeballs in the glass jar in the woman’s hand. 

“Put those back!” Sherlock shouts.

“They were in the microwave!” She says in utter disgust.

“It’s an experiment.” Sherlock turns away in a huff, Lestrade rising from his seat.

“Keep looking guys. Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish.” Sherlock huffs as he paces.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not got off on your own. Clear?” 

“What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?” Sherlock complains loudly.

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.” Lestrade hedges with a sly grin.

“I am clean!” Sherlock barks. He moves to undo the button on his cuff, pulling the sleeve up as he speaks. “I don’t even smoke.” Turning up his wrist to show the large nicotine patch on his forearm. Lestrade does the same to reveal one of his own.

“So, let’s work together. We found Rachel.” Lestrade shares, Iris having no idea who that is. Iris looks to John as she sees she’s probably in the way of whatever they seem to be doing. John quietly eyes the scene, and she realizes he doesn’t quite notice she’s actually there. She’s about to turn and go when Anderson in the kitchen cuts Sherlock off loudly. 

“Never mind that, we found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.” Not quite the diagnosis Iris would label him with, although she did just meet the man...

“I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath, do your research.” Sherlock spits back to correct him. Iris agrees that seems to fit better, even with knowing him so briefly. Between first meeting John and Sherlock, encountering the strange ‘archenemy’ of Sherlock’s, and now the chaos of Lestrade and his ‘drugs bust,’ Iris wonders just what her neighbors are up to. It seems from Sherlock’s website he has a brilliant mind, and the local police force seems to be utilizing him in an advisor type setting, but the specifics of it all seem to elude Iris at the moment.

Iris makes her way downstairs as she overhears Mrs. Hudson telling what must be a cab driver at the front door that no one here ordered a cab. Curious, Iris stays at the base of the stairs, watching Mrs. Hudson lead the very adamant man back upstairs. He’s an older gentleman in a worn cap and sweater, leather cabbie tag hanging from his neck and a pink phone in his hand. Iris tilts her head at the pink phone, remembering how pink the case was Sherlock had earlier. The same one that Anderson said the murderer was supposed to have. 

Upstairs Iris hears Sherlock shout at everyone, his voice booming down the narrow staircase. Soon, the cabbie makes his way back downstairs and out the front door. Iris can’t quite figure out what’s happening, but before she can arrive at any sort of conclusion, Sherlock, of all people, makes his way downstairs as well.

“Sherlock, is everything alright?”

Sherlock moves his head towards Iris but keeps his eyes on the front door, making some noise that Iris takes as a ‘yes it’s all fine.’ 

“That man has a pink phone that is a very similar shade to that case you have, is that a coincidence, or?”

“The world is rarely so lazy- no it’s fine though, just going to pop outside real quick.” Seemingly transfixed on the front door, Sherlock leaves Iris in the foyer, tying his scarf around his neck and exiting into the cold night air. 

Utterly confused by everything that’s just happened, Iris decides to hole herself up in her flat, and just let whatever is happening happen. It doesn’t concern her, so she can just leave it alone. Sherlock saying he’s clean does makes Iris feel a bit better in regards to the drugs bust, pretend or not. She eventually hears all the people with Lestrade clear out, and Mrs. Hudson close the door to her flat, cloaking the whole building in relative silence. 

Half an hour later, Iris has almost fully finished hanging up all her clothes, but with no good coat hook in her flat, she decides to put her bulkiest wool coat in the hallway by the front door. As she adjusts it on an empty hook, she hears John coming down the staircase. She turns to see him in his coat carrying an open laptop in his hand. 

“Hi, it’s John, right? Everything okay?” Iris notices the distinct lack of John’s cane again, but chooses not to say anything or else seem rude. 

“Yea, well I’m not too sure. Sherlock just up and left a bit ago-”

“He took off with that older man, the cab driver. It was weird, the old man had this bright pink phone with him, seemed a bit off... I take it Sherlock’s not back yet?”

“No, he’s not back. I think he may be in trouble, and I’m going to go try and find him now.” The laptop in his hand pings and John checks it.

“You have his location?”

“Well, it’s for this case. There is this serial killer who’s killed four people, the last was a woman who planted her phone on him before she died. Or at least that what Sherlock thinks, sorry, I don’t really have time to fully explain-”

“No worries, do you want some help? I’d be happy to come with if you need.”

John contemplates this, still unsure of Iris but concern for Sherlock overriding that.

“Uh, well, I don’t quite know what’s going on, but... yeah if you want to come that’d be fine. I have no idea what’s he’s gotten himself into.”

“Lead the way.” Iris grabs her coat off the hook, wondering what on earth she’s doing. She should just go back to her flat, make some tea, and go to bed. But something about Sherlock intrigues her, and he can’t get himself into trouble before she figures out who he is.

The two hop into a cab, sans strange men and locked doors thankfully, and quickly make their way towards the location on John’s laptop. John hands Iris the laptop while he dials Lestrade, and Iris leans forward to give the cabbie directions based off the map on the screen. 

The pinging location finally lands on a school building, dark and closed up given the late hour. John and Iris exit the cab, quiet but buzzing energy passing between them. John points towards a set of doors down one of the buildings, and they jog over, only to find the door locked. Iris pulls out a couple of bobby pins from her hair and manages to jimmy open the door before John can realize what she’s doing.

“You pick locks?” John asks incredulously.

“I’m a multifaceted individual, and you’ve only just met me.” Iris grins as she opens the door fully for John. He lets out a huff of a laugh before peering around the dark hallway. Iris closes the door quietly behind her, staying near to John. She pushes away memories of her and Sam breaking into various libraries and roller rinks when they were younger, smiling at how crafty she felt the first time she unlocked one of the doors. 

The hallways are vast and empty and there are dozens upon dozens of doors and passageways. The two decide to split up and jog up and down the halls. Most doors are locked, but peering through windows neither can find any trace of Sherlock. 

Iris comes across another locked door, peering through the window to try and see if she should pick the lock or not. As most doors before this were dark and empty, she almost pulls away. But in looking through the window on the door, Iris can just make out the building across the way.

“John! This one!” She pulls the bobby pins back out and goes at the lock, as John sprints over to peer through the window. 

They get the door open, and make their way across the science lab to the big panel windows. Iris realizes their mistake when she sees Sherlock in the building across from them, too far to reach or call out to. Iris sees the cabbie as well, a smug look on his face and a small bottle in his hand. 

“Well what do we do, he can’t hear us from here, and it’ll take too long to try and get into whatever building he’s in.” Iris thinks out loud, pacing slightly where she stands. John is watching Sherlock and the cabbie intently, trying to make out whatever it is they’re saying.

“What’s that in their hands? Can you tell?” John tries to get closer to the window, Iris joining him.

“It looks like a small pill bottle? Well they’ve opened it, what is it? You don’t think Sherlock would take whatever that is, would you?”

“I have no idea.” John reaches behind his jacket into his waistband and retrieves his firearm, causing Iris to take a step away.

“Woah, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know how he does it, but somehow that cabbie makes people take poison that kills them, and while I would like to think Sherlock is clever enough to not fall for it, I think he may be just stupid enough to do it.” John opens the small slat of the window, aiming his gun across the way.

“What if you miss John, you could hit Sherlock.” Iris fears, watching the back of Sherlock’s head across the way.

“I won’t miss then.” John lines up his shot, waiting, hoping, for Sherlock to not take the pill. Iris watches intently, ducking down slightly and plugging her ears with her fingers as she sees Sherlock raise the pill to his lips, causing John to fire. The gunshot is loud, leaving Iris’ ears ringing, even having been plugged. She stands up fully just as John grabs her arm and pulls her to leave.

“Come on, we have to get out of here.”

Iris is silent as John leads her out of the school, sirens wailing off in the near distance. Soon officers set up police tape and an ambulance arrives amongst a sea of police cars. Iris follows John and the two stand behind a line of police tape watching Sherlock emerge from the building, surrounded as paramedics look him over. They place an orange blanket on Sherlock’s shoulders, and Iris giggles quietly with John before silence falls back over them. A beat or two passes before Iris leans closer to John.

“I didn’t see or hear anything as far as I’m concerned, John. Whatever happens.” Iris says calmly, looking around at the whirl of people moving about. She looks over at John to see him nod his head curtly as he had when they first met. 

The woman who asked about the eyeballs, who now identifies herself as Sergeant Donovan, comes over and very tersely explains what Iris and John already saw; the cabbie had two pills, a good one and a bad one, and he would have his victims choose a pill to take, and whatever one they didn’t pick, he would take it himself. Someone apparently shot the cabbie from across the building in order to protect Sherlock. Iris tries to act like this is all brand new information, and not belie the fact that she was standing right next to the man who fired the bullet. Eventually Sergeant Donovan leaves, John not commenting on their little chat.

Across the way, Sherlock talks with Lestrade but they are too far away to make out what either is saying. Sherlock looks out across the police officers and people passing by, his eyes falling on Iris and John, causing him to pause midsentence. Soon Sherlock leaves Lestrade, and makes his way toward them, depositing the orange blanket into the front seat of the nearby police car. Sherlock joins them under the tape. 

“Sergeant Donovan’s been explaining about everything. The two pills- dreadful business, dreadful.” John stays flat and uninterested in his tone. 

“Good shot.” Sherlock says quietly with a smirk. Iris laughs quietly under her breath. 

“Yeah, it must have been. Through that window...” John looks at Sherlock.

“Well, you’d know. We’ll need to get the powder burns out of your finger. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you both alright?”

Iris nods quietly, not wanting to say anything at the moment. John huffs.

“Yes, course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man.” Sherlock points out.

“Yes. That’s true, isn’t it? But, he wasn’t a very nice man.” John retorts.

“No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?” Sherlock looks out at the other people around them.

“And honestly, a truly awful cab driver.” Iris pipes in, Sherlock and John chuckling.

“Yeah, that’s true. He was a very bad cabbie. You should’ve seen the route he took us to get here.”

The three burst out in laughter, giggling away like children. Sergeant Donovan looks up from her notebook at the noise, and the three quiet down slightly, Sherlock leading the way towards the main road.

“Stop it, we can’t giggle.” John says as he continues to giggle.

“It’s a crime scene, I don’t think giggling’s allowed.” Iris adds, trying to stifle her laughter and failing.

“Well, you’re the one who shot him.” Sherlock teases loudly, Iris realizing Sergeant Donovan is walking right by them.

“Keep your voice down.” John huffs out in a low voice, just as they pass Sergeant Donovan. “Sorry, it’s just, umm, nerves, I think.” John says to her as they pass, Iris keeping her eyes down as Sherlock apologizes as well.

Soon they’re out of Sergeant Donovan’s earshot, and the giggles subside. John stops briefly, causing both Iris and Sherlock to turn around.

“You were going to take the damn pill, weren’t you?” John asks.

Sherlock smirks. “Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d show up. Didn’t quite expect you Ms. Moretti, but I’m glad you came as well.”

“Thought I could lend a hand. Or a bobby pin as it seems.” 

Sherlock looks quizzically at her, John adding, “She jimmied the locked doors open, the ones to the building and then to the lab across from you.”

“Ah, see I knew you’d figure it out and make it in plenty of time.”

“No, you didn’t. That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Risking your life to prove you’re clever.” John observes, making his own deductions of Sherlock. 

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asks.

“Because you’re an idiot.” John retorts, earning a smile from Sherlock.

Iris realizes that there is a lot more to these two men than she first thought. Whoever they are, whatever it was they were doing, Iris feels extremely glad she offered to help John this evening. 

Iris misses the tail end of their conversation as a figure across the way catches her attention. She’s about to turn to Sherlock when she notices John sees the same thing she does. The strange man closes the car door behind him, Iris shivering nervously.

“Sherlock,” both John and Iris say at the exact same time. That startles them, the two sharing a look before turning their gazes back to the tall lanky man leaning on his umbrella. Next to him stands a beautiful woman typing away on her Blackberry. 

“That’s the guy who was in my cab earlier.” Iris says warily. Hesitant to share another cab ride with this man, Iris finds comfort in knowing Sherlock and John (with his firearm) are beside her.

“That’s him. That’s the guy I was talking about...” John seems to have had a similar experience, Iris wondering how that went for him. 

Sherlock follows their gaze and lands on the man and his umbrella.

“I know exactly who that is.” Sherlock takes off towards the man. Iris and John follow cautiously.

“Did he offer you money to spy on Sherlock as well?” John asks Iris, glad to know he’s not the only one to have had the distinct pleasure of interacting with this umbrella wielding bribe offeror, whoever he is. Iris nods as they join Sherlock and the unfamiliar man. 

“So! Another case cracked. How very public spirited of you. Though that’s never really ever your motivation, is it?” The man spins his umbrella on the ground, tapping it. He seems pleasantly annoyed at Sherlock, Iris wondering how those two emotions could go together.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock seems more annoyed than upset about being faced with his supposed ‘archenemy,’ and Iris is, once again, confused.

“As ever... I am concerned about you.” He responds. Again with the concern, Iris thinks to herself, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.

“Yes. I’ve been hearing about your concern.” Sherlock glances over to John and Iris. Iris is suddenly very away that this weird man may be quite upset that she told Sherlock about his offer... She hopes he isn’t.

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no.” Sherlock huffs.

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

Iris lets out a huge guffaw, having to take a step back at the hilarity of what she just realized. John stands there dumbfounded as Sherlock retorts.

“I upset her? Me? It wasn’t me who upset her, Mycroft-”

John hasn’t put the pieces together yet, and still confused, asks, “No, sorry, wait, wait- Mummy? Who’s Mummy?”

“Mother. Our Mother.” Sherlock responds, another glare to Mycroft. 

“He’s your brother, isn’t he, Sherlock?” Iris giggles, finally seeing the resemblance.

“Of course he is. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?” Sherlock sneers.

“Losing it, in fact.” Mycroft retorts.

John doesn’t quite know what to say, he’s just looking between the two men, baffled.

“So, he’s not...” John trails off.

“Not what?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“I dunno. Criminal mastermind?”

“Archenemy?” Iris adds, smacking her forehead internally at not piecing this together sooner. The bone structure and stature of both men scream siblings, and their generally strange behavior seem like pages out of the same book.

“Close enough.” Sherlock shrugs, to Mycroft’s horror.

“Oh for goodness sake! I occupy a minor post in the British Government.”

“He is the British Government. When he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service, or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft- try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does for the traffic.” Sherlock bites as he leaves with a flounce of his coat. 

“So when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned about him.” Iris giggles as John just shakes his head.

“Yes, of course.”

“You mean, it actually is a childish feud?” John inquires.

“He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.” Mycroft rolls his eyes and looks back to Sherlock, who waits for Iris and John in the distance.

“I would pay good money to see one of those dinners, believe me.” Iris chuckles and starts off to leave. She notices John looking at the woman on her Blackberry behind Mycroft. 

“Hello, again.” He says casually. “We met earlier on this evening?” Iris can see this woman has no interest in, or even any clue as to who John is, and she smiles ruefully.

“Come on John, let’s go.” Iris grabs him by the elbow and playfully tugs at him to follow her, he dejectedly does so. 

They join back with Sherlock and make their way past the perimeter of police cars, discussing dim sum, fortune cookies, and John’s military injury. He was shot in the shoulder during the war in Afghanistan, coming home with a limp, and probably some PTSD if Iris were to take a guess. Iris realizes that John’s limp was psychological rather than physical, and somehow Sherlock made him forget he needed his cane. The two men banter easily and Iris enjoys their company. 

For her first day in London, Iris can’t believe all that’s happened, but there’s this warm feeling in the pit of her gut that tells her she made the right decision. She still has a long way to go before she finds her family and the answers to her many questions, but if this is where she has to wait it out and who she has to share the time with, Iris couldn’t be any happier.

Iris is so lost in her thoughts she almost misses the end of John and Sherlock’s conversation, something about the word ‘Moriarty.’ They ask her if she’s ever heard of it, but she shakes her head, unfamiliar with the term. 

“Well, dim sum it is, you coming with?” Sherlock holds the door open to the cab, looking at Iris.

“I’d love to, thanks.” Iris joins in the cab, pulling down the small seat behind the driver so she’s sitting across from the other two. 

The cab pulls away, leaving Mycroft and his assistant on the cobblestone behind them. 

“Can you really guess the fortunes in the fortune cookies? How would that even work?” Iris asks inquisitively, realizing she has a lot more to learn about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? How'd it go? This honestly is terrifying to share something I've been working on by myself/in my head for so long... but it's also exciting! Please let me know what you think, comments, questions, concerns, you name it! I am also excited for The Blind Banker next, even if it's an episode we all skip when re-watching!


	3. The Blind Banker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we always skip this episode, but Iris is just getting her feet wet! Some of the timelines in the episode are a bit wonky, I tried rectifying them and I think it works, I'm trying to avoid the jumps in time like on television... Enjoy!

The cold, dreary London weather is a bit of an adjustment for Iris, though freezing winters in New York City make it bearable. It merely gives her more of an excuse to wear some of her favorite knit sweaters and wool cardigans. Today she trades her converse for a thicker pair of Chelsea styled boots, brown, to complement her dark maroon cable knit sweater. Her long hair is half up in a bit of a twist, the remaining parts flowing in the chilling wind as she leaves an old office building. Her dark taupe coat keeps the wind mostly at bay, Iris adjusting her navy scarf closer to her face as she pulls out her cell phone. The new international plan was a bit more than she initially expected in price, but the ability to call Sam from wherever was a definite perk.

“Iris? How’s it going?” Sam’s voice rings in crystal clear through the line, as Iris dodges in and out of people on the bustling streets. If the buildings looked a bit different Iris would feel like she was on the bustling streets of Manhattan.

“Heya Sam, it’s fine I just got out of that meeting with my new PI, I guess George didn’t give him the full rundown of what’s been going on, so I spent most of it catching him up to speed.” Iris explains with a strong hint of annoyance.

“Does he seem like he’ll be able to help?”

“Well, he said he has a few contacts that should know if the name and phone number is actually traceable to a shop in London, and he hopes to get back to me by the end of the week, so that’s something.”

“Wait, I thought the shop was a done deal, it’s not?” Iris can hear his disappointment and tries to ignore his slight ‘I told you so’ tone.

“No, it was only the first shop to pop up when George was doing research. There could be more shops that sell necklaces like mine, and so the new PI, Alfred, wants to make sure it’s a viable source before I go knocking on doors.”

Iris finds a small park off the main road and plops down on a bench, pulling her bag into her lap.

“I hope he finds something... I feel like it’s such a thin thread though...” Sam’s doubt is pouring over the line, and even without seeing him, Iris pictures the exact amount of tension in his face, his scrunched up forehead, one thumbnail being bitten nervously.

“Well if it’s a thin thread then I will pull very gently, but you know I have to try.”

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll lead somewhere... How about your new neighbors? Anymore crazy shenanigans?”

Iris laughs, the nearly two hour long video chat the day after her adventure with John and Sherlock caught Sam up to speed, and they are both equally curious as to the new residents in Iris’ building. 

“So far things have settled, I hear scuffles and the occasional shouts but I mostly have left them to their own devices. Thankfully I haven’t heard anymore from Mycroft either, he seems to get the fact that I don’t want to spy on his little brother for him.”

“Ah yes, but the money would have been nice.” Sam teases. He was quite upset over the whole locked-in-a-cab-with-a-strange-man incident, but once Iris explained who the man was, he calmed slightly. “But yeah that whole thing seems like drama you do not need.”

Iris chuckles and takes in the passersby around her. “Yeah... I do have to say, being here for the week or so I have been has felt more right than almost anything I’ve done in the past two years in New York. I mean other than you and how much I miss you, I’m feeling like this is the right step for me.” Iris smiles to herself, watching a few fall leaves land softly on the ground around her.

“I’m glad, even if you are so far away. I want you happy Iris, you deserve it. Is everything working out with your visa?”

Iris pulls out her black notebook as Sam’s question reminds her of a note she needed to jot down. She writes as she talks, circling and underlining a few names Alfred gave her in his office.

“I think so, Dr. Amir from my lab really pulled through a major favor for me. He knows a guy over at this place called St. Bartholomew’s, in a research institute that just so happens to be doing similar genetic research to what I’ve been helping Dr. Amir with at Columbia. So he made some calls and technically I’d be working for a UK branch of an American corporation or something, so I can get up to a three year visa if I play my cards right. I still have to go to the embassy to iron out the details, but I think I should be okay.”

“Yikes, three years?”

“I know Sam, I know, but it’s the best thing I can think of, rather than be stuck with a tourist visa and only be allowed in for 6 months. If I learned anything from working with a PI, is it’s going to take so much longer. And I don’t want to be stuck back in the US if there’s finally something to track down here.”

Sam is quiet on the other end of the line, and Iris knows he realizes she’s right. The stress of it all almost becomes too much, and Iris reaches for her small orange fidget cube, playing with a few of the buttons while they sit in a semi-uncomfortable silence. Sam sighs audibly, and Iris closes her eyes.

_Sam’s face after learning his birth mom didn’t want to fight for custody once she got out of jail. Iris hugging him tightly on the back porch. A flash. Sam’s face while looking at his SAT scores, disappointed at himself, jealous of Iris’ higher scores. A barrage of Sam’s face sighing the same sigh across the years flash before her._

“Iris, you still there?” Sam’s voice sounds concerned.

“Yeah, just remembering all the times you’ve ever sighed like that.” She exhales and opens her eyes. “I’m sorry Sam, I know you’re disappointed I left, I know you don’t think this is the right choice, that you think I’m just going to get hurt-“ 

“Iris, hey, it’s fine. Yeah I’m sad because I miss you, but I get it. If there was a way I could make things right with my birth family I would do the same thing. It just sucks that it’s taking you so far away.” 

“Yes, it most certainly does suck. But you can’t get rid of me, even if you tried. You’re stuck with me, oh brother mine.”

“Forever and always?” Sam asks playfully, their usual banter returning.

Iris grins. “Forever and always.”

“Good, now go find your answers and get your butt back here asap, got it?”

“I will do my absolute best. Thanks Sam.”

“For what?”

“For loving me even if you’re mad at me. I don’t think I could do any of this if I didn’t have you in my corner.” Iris tightens her coat around her on the bench.

“I couldn’t hate you if I tried, you’re following the path you need to, and I’ve got your back, always.”

“Good, I’ll text you later.”

“Sounds good, bye Iris.”

She hangs up her phone and slips it back into her pocket. The wind has picked up, so she stands up from the bench and makes her way back towards the main row of shops. Iris puts her notebook back in her bag, and continues on down the road. Eventually she reaches a local library. People bustling in and out, Iris decides to take refuge from the cold for a bit.

Not even ten minutes of being in the library, exploring up and down the aisles, does Iris spot two familiar figures across the way: Sherlock and John, in a political science aisle of all places. Iris has a couple of books in her hands, and if she turned now she could check out without them seeing her... But instead, her curiosity gets the better of her, and Iris finds herself at the end of their aisle, quietly stalking her way up to surprise them.

“Fancy running into you boys here, what adventure are you on now?” Iris chuckles as the two startle at her approach.

“Jesus- I know it’s a library, but you could make a little noise.” John quietly curses, Sherlock’s mouth turning up in a small grin.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Iris remarks. “But seriously, what are you doing here?”

“A case, a man died who used to work here.” Sherlock states, raising up a book that was in his hand. “The date stamped in this book is the same day he died.”

“Oh god, that’s not good.” It always seems to be a murder when it comes to Sherlock.

“Yeah, and it’s connected somehow to a banker who was found dead in his flat. We’re not quite sure how, but we think the same person killed both men.” John adds, as him and Sherlock move down the aisle looking at the numbers on the spines. Iris follows them curiously. 

Sherlock on one side pulls out a book that matches whatever he was looking for, but Iris watches as John shifts a few books aside, freezing with shock.

“Sherlock.” John breaths carefully.

Iris and Sherlock join John over his shoulder, and Iris reaches out at the bright yellow graffiti tag that sits on the back of the shelf. Who would spray graffiti in a library? And what is that symbol? Iris senses that she’s about to get pulled into something very peculiar, and she couldn’t be more excited. 

“Yellow spray paint? In a library?” Iris asks as Sherlock snaps a picture on his cellphone, examining the paint with a small handheld magnifying glass he pulls from his pocket.

“It’s the same mark we’ve seen before-“ John starts to explain. Sherlock suddenly takes off towards the exit, and Iris hastily leaves her books on an empty cart, following them both out of the library. 

John explains a bit more of the two crime scenes they visited in the cab back to Baker Street, something about both places being extremely high up and difficult to unlock or reach. Similar markings in the exact same spray paint have been found as well, though they don’t know what they mean exactly. 

Soon they are standing in the living room of 221B, Sherlock staring at the mirror over the fireplace, newly printed photos of similar yellow graffiti marks taped up in front of him. John stands behind his chair, leaning his fists on the back thinking, and Iris sits on the edge of the table between the two large windows. Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off the photos.

“So. The killer goes to the bank- leaves the threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, goes back to his flat and locks himself inside. Just hours later... he dies.” Sherlock points to various markings, Iris lost on their meaning.

“The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the books where the guy will see it. Lukis goes home...“ John adds lifting up a photo blocking another picture of a large portrait with a long yellow line sprayed across the face in the painting. 

“And that night he dies too...” Iris concludes, feeling somewhat caught up to speed. 

“Why did they die, Sherlock?” John asks, crossing around to the front of his chair and sitting down. Sherlock doesn’t move except for his eyes across the photos.

“Only the cipher can tell us.”

Iris sits in the silence with the two men, contemplating what all has been said.

“Well, surely if the cipher is using something as blatant as graffiti to send a message, there must be other styles or other graffiti artists who have seen similar markings?” Iris says aloud.

Sherlock turns to look at Iris, impressed at her not being a complete waste of brain space.

“Let’s go, I have an idea.” Sherlock leads the two out of the flat, into their coats and into another cab (Iris is grateful that they don’t seem to be asking for any cab fare, though she figures if she spends more time in cabs with them she may offer to chip in a bit. She was going to figure out the Underground system and use public transportation like in New York City, but if John and Sherlock want to take a cab, she guesses it’s the best way for them to maneuver the city). 

Soon the trio is on foot, crossing Trafalgar Square, and Iris recognizes the giant fountain and statue looming over them with ease. Sherlock seems a million miles ahead of them, at least in his thought process. Iris and John jog slightly to keep up.

“The world runs on codes and ciphers... that million pound security system at the bank... the pin machine you took exception to-“

“You had a problem with a pin machine?” Iris asks John quizzically, wondering first what a pin machine was, and second why John would have any problem with what is probably a simple automated system.

John tenses and brushes her off. “Long story.”

Iris quiets, letting Sherlock continue as they walk up a large set of long stairs. 

“Cryptography inhabits our every waking moment, but it’s all computer generated. Electronic codes- electronic ciphering methods. This is different: it’s an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods can’t unravel it.”

“Okay, but where are we headed?” John asks, somewhat annoyed that Sherlock seems to know the plan but has left John and Iris out of it.

“I need some advice.”

John and Iris both look at one another, nearly shocked into stillness on the steps. 

“What? Sorry?” John asks, catching back up with Sherlock. Iris nearly laughs, remembering the detail of Sherlock’s website, doubting he would need ‘advice’ on anything.

“You heard me perfectly. I’m not saying it again.” Sherlock refuses to look at them.

John grins. “You need advice.” Iris snorts quietly behind them, joining in John’s general amusement. 

“On painting. Yes. I need to talk to an expert.”

Iris wonders why Sherlock doesn’t have a section of his website on the Science of Painting, but she guesses no one can know absolutely everything.

She follows the two down a side alley, away from the tourists and general crowd. Iris notices a young guy, maybe in his late teens, spray painting something on the side of the building. There is a black bag at his feet, and the guy is lost in his work. The three reach him, Iris seeing that his ‘work’ is a policeman with a pig’s face. Brilliant.

“Part of my new exhibition.” The painter explains proudly.

“Interesting” John retorts, seemingly unamused by their current location.

To say the least. Iris thinks to herself. Suddenly more memories spark into her vision. _Giant murals on the local rec center in town, flowers and trees and a beautiful woman’s face. A girl draw squiggles on the wall of the living room, a ten-year old Iris hides behind the couch as the foster father grabs the marker out of the little girl’s hand with a shout._

Iris shakes out of her slight trance with just enough time to spot the officers coming down the alleyway. Lightning reflexes like Sherlock and the graffiti artist, Iris takes off behind them, on their heels and back in with the general crowd in a flash. Stopping once in the clear, Iris turns to ask John what the guy said, only to notice that John didn’t seem to have as quick of reflexes. 

“Sherlock, we should go back for John.”

“He’ll be fine, I have more research I need to do to figure out what these symbols are.”

Iris recognizes that any argument here is futile, and rather than risk getting caught up in any sort of legal trouble, Iris joins Sherlock in the cab back to Baker Street. She is about to start a conversation with him, when Iris senses Sherlock is not even aware she’s sitting to his left in the cab with him. 

Glad to have some quiet, Iris pulls out her notebook and her small fidget cube. Writing with her left hand and fiddling with her right, Iris doesn’t notice Sherlock eying her small toy at first.

“What’s that in your hand?”

Iris pulls herself out of her notebook, almost forgetting she absentmindedly had her fidget cube in her hand.

“Oh, this? It’s a Fidget Cube. Sometimes my anxiety can make it hard for me to focus if I’m trying to process a thought or idea. This gives my hands something to do that’s quiet but funnels all that excess energy, letting me focus.” She offers it out to Sherlock next to her. He picks it up with curiosity, trying out a few of the buttons before handing it back.

“Interesting.” 

And just like that Sherlock is back off into whatever mind space he was in before her fidget cube distracted him, and Iris resumes her focus on her notebook. She flips through her notes from the meeting she had with Alfred this morning, pulling out her phone to check if he’d left her a message yet. While she knew it wasn’t likely he’d come back with news in the same day, she hoped maybe something had popped up. 

Eventually they make their way back to Baker Street, and Iris wonders where John ended up, hoping he managed to talk his way out of whatever the guards thought he had done. Iris follows Sherlock upstairs almost without realizing, and just when she turns to head back to her flat, Sherlock breaks out of his silence to ask her for help with the printer.

“John somehow manages to get it connected to his laptop, but I never can, I need as many language systems and archaic symbols as we can find.”

Instantly, Iris is elbow deep in Google searches and printouts, helping Sherlock tape them up on the mirror, trying to pinpoint where the symbols are from. 

Nearly two hours pass before they hear the front door open, and John stalks his way up the stairs. Iris finds herself seated at the table closest to the couch, with Sherlock sitting in his chair, nose deep in a book about ancient runes. He rises to check another symbol, looking at John through the mirror. Iris can sense the anger seething out of John.

“You’ve been a while.” Sherlock throws over his shoulder. Iris rolls her eyes at Sherlock’s cheek, knowing it’ll surely set John off, as it would most certainly annoy her.

“Yeah, well you know how it is... Custody Sergeants don’t like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Finger prints; a charge sheet. And I’ll have to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday...” 

Iris hears ‘Magistrates Court’ and can only imagine men in long black robes and those old powdered curly wigs. “Seriously?” Iris asks, shocked that they wouldn’t believe the spray paint wasn’t his, but Iris was fairly lost in her memory flashes and didn’t see the can in his hand or bag of extra paint at his feet.

“Me, Sherlock. In court on Tuesday. They’re giving me an ASBO. Criminal damage.”

Iris refrains from asking what an ASBO is, choosing to Google it herself later.

Sherlock hasn’t even fully made eye contact with John since he returned, still lost in his research. “Good. Fine,” is all he manages to get out.

“You want to tell your little pal: he’s welcome to go and own up, anytime...”

“They really didn’t believe you John? I’m so sorry, I thought you were right behind us, or else I would have said something...” Iris now severely regrets not going back for John, seeing how upset he is. Sherlock still seems unfazed.

“This symbol- I still can’t place it.” 

John starts to take his coat off and sit down, Sherlock stops him and puts his coat right back on.

“Nope, I want you to go to the police station. Ask about the journalist.” John grunts as Sherlock rights the coat back on his shoulders and pushes him towards the door. “All his personal effects will be impounded. Get hold of a diary- or something that will tell us his movements.” Sherlock then goes for his coat as well, putting it on. “I’ll go and see Van Coon’s PA... If we can retrace their steps- somewhere they’re going to coincide.”

Iris, not wanting to be caught up and whatever John seems to have gotten himself into, and seeing that Sherlock most surely forgot she was still sitting there, decides to stay behind and continue her Google searching. 

After a couple hours of googling different languages from as far back as she could find, Iris decides to take a look around and stretch her legs. Standing at the mirror taking in all the books and knick knacks around, Iris nearly startles at the sizeable skull on the mantle, right next to a large blade standing upright, having been impaled through some mail it seems. 

Her phone’s text sound pulls her away from a rather interesting set of science experiments laid out over the dining table. John sends a photo that shows an elaborate group of symbols like they’ve been trying to research, explaining that they’re an old Chinese numerical system, each symbol equates to a number. Iris prints out the photo, gathering the different symbols, and googles the number system John listed.

Soon Iris has most of the photos deciphered, or at least each symbol’s associated number is written out next to it. Iris takes pride in her ability to work this out, taping the newly transcribed photos to the center of the mirror. Iris sits back at the chair she’d been in all evening, deciding to wait for the boys to return. Soon her eyelids begin to grow heavy, and what she thought would be only a short cat nap turned into a near three hour snooze, only awoken by Mrs. Hudson gently shaking her shoulder.

“Iris, dear, what are you doing up here?” Mrs. Hudson peers down at her with soft eyes, slightly concerned.

Iris lifts her head quickly, a bit too quickly she soon realizes, and she rubs the back of her neck with her hand, blinking in the early dawn light peeking through the windows. 

“I was waiting for John and Sherlock to get back, I must have fallen asleep.”

“They came back around three or four in the morning I think, you didn’t hear them?”

Iris shakes her head, still baffled she managed to knock out as hard as she did. The two hear stirring from the upstairs bedroom, and soon John is downstairs in the kitchen. He turns when he realizes he is not alone.

“Mrs. Hudson, Iris? What are you doing up here this early in the morning?”

Iris tries but fails to stifle a rather large yawn. 

“I was waiting for you both to get back, I transcribed-” she motions over to the mirror as another great yawn takes over again.

“You mean you’ve been here all night?” John asks, shocked.

“Did you not see her when you two got back?” Mrs. Hudson changes places with John in the kitchen, starting a pot of tea.

John moves over to the back of his chair, still in disbelief that he didn’t notice Iris.

“No, it was so late and the flat was dark, I didn’t even go through the living room, just right up the stairs. Sherlock said it would take a couple hours to decode everything so I just went up to bed to catch a few z’s.” John looks over to the photos on the mirror, seeing the markings in Iris’ handwriting. “Wow, Iris, I’m sorry, if I’d have seen you I would have woken you up.”

Iris shakes her head as she stands, stretching her now very sore back. “Don’t worry about it, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I easily could have left them behind and gone back down. I just didn’t think you’d be so long.”

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom opens and he flounces out in his general button up and slacks, though also donning a very flowy silk robe. It doesn’t seem like he’s slept at all, but Iris can’t quite tell with Sherlock. He carries a handful of papers, passing right by Mrs. Hudson and John, and resumes his place in front of the mirror. He peers closer and realizes there are numbers jotted down on all the pictures that are still tacked up on the mirror, and Sherlock turns to John.

“Did you do this?” He asks.

John shakes his head and motions over to Iris, still awkwardly stretching her back, greatly regretting falling asleep in the hunched over position she did. Sherlock looks at her, and Iris realizes he has the same photos reprinted out and in his hand, his own handwriting scribbled out across the pages.

“When John sent me the photo and told me what the symbols were, I looked them up and marked it all down. I thought it would help once you found out whatever the cipher was. I figured you’d be back sooner than you were and ended up falling asleep.”

Sherlock turns back to John. “And you didn’t notice her when we got back?”

John’s eyes widen. “I didn’t notice her? I’m not Sherlock Holmes, the man who notices every bloody detail. Also, my room’s upstairs, I didn’t even go through the kitchen, which you must have if you used the bloody printer, so why didn’t you notice her?”

Sherlock looks somewhat taken aback, unsure without some witty response. 

“Well... it was dark. We’d been running around all day, I figured Iris went back after we left. I didn’t need the light to use the printer, and I worked in my bedroom so I could think better.”

Iris would have laughed if she hadn’t been severely deprived of caffeine. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson seemed to know and the kettle whistling interrupts everyone.

“It’s fine guys, really, I’m just glad you figured out what the symbols were. Do you know what the numbers mean?” 

Sherlock turns back to the cipher, as Mrs. Hudson pours four cups of tea. Iris crosses over to the kitchen to help her. 

“Always in pairs, John. Look.” Sherlock’s own pages lay abandoned on the floor, instead choosing to keep Iris’ pages tacked up. John yawns audibly.

“Mm?” John runs a hand through his hair.

“Every number comes with a partner...” 

“God, I need to sleep.” John groans. Iris crosses over with two cups of tea, handing one of the mugs to John who accepts it gratefully. Iris gingerly takes a sip of her own. The warmth of the liquid and the knowledge of the caffeine entering her system helps Iris’ sore body vastly. 

“Why paint it next to the tracks?” Sherlock still lost in thought. John rubs his eyes and stifles another yawn.

“Just twenty more minutes...” John mutters, not ready to think at Sherlock’s speed.

Iris chuckles over her mug of tea, empathizing with John’s tiredness. Sherlock claps his hands together loudly, startling both of them.

“Of course! He wants information. He’s contacting all his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen- he wants it back. And it’s somewhere here- in code. We can’t crack this without Soo Lin Yao.” Sherlock quickly loses his dressing gown, going over to the coat rack for his Belstaff instead. John groans and downs a few more gulps of tea, probably scalding his tongue.

Iris senses more adventure is to be had, and manages to down more than half her tea, handing it back to Mrs. Hudson’s outstretched hand. 

“Thanks Mrs. Hudson, I’ll help clean up next time.”

“Just this once, I’m not your housekeeper.” Mrs. Hudson winks and Iris grins as she throws her coat on and grabs her bag in time to follow the two boys down the stairs. 

Another cab ride and soon Iris finds herself inside The National Antiques Museum, something she remembers reading in a handful of tourist websites and magazines. Sam even bought her an “A to Z of London” book before she left, and Iris remembers how small the fountain seemed in comparison to the real thing in front of her.

Iris follows John and Sherlock as they interview a young man named Andy who worked with Soo Lin (John explained in the cab ride over that they found her apartment empty after it was visited by who they think is the same killer they’re looking for.) Andy doesn’t seem to know where Soo Lin went, even after a trip down to the main restoration vaults turns up empty. Apparently Soo Lin was working on restoring a set of extremely old clay tea pots. In order to keep the clay from cracking, they needed to be taken off the display and have tea made in them.

“Maybe she never left.” Sherlock ponders, looking at a case of clay pots. John mentioned that when he and Sherlock first visited the museum, there was only one clay pot that had been glistening, now there were two.

“What, you think she hides out in the museum all day?” John asks, and Iris tries to think what she’d do if she was in Soo Lin’s place, knowing someone was after her but still so dedicated to a collection of rare clay artifacts.

“And then returns after closing to care for those pots.” Sherlock finishes, checking his watch for the time. 

“The museum closes at 7pm tonight.” Andy adds, wringing his hands nervously.

The three decide to pass the time in the museum, taking in all the exhibits, even having lunch in the small cafe. Sherlock disappears from time to time, exploring hidden passageways and leaving John and Iris behind. 

Iris absentmindedly flips though her notebook, trying to pass the time as they’ve gone through the last exhibit nearly thrice now and it’s only four o’clock. Across the cafe table from her sits John, his chin resting on his fist, snoring softly. Iris chuckles at his ability to sleep sitting up, though in remembering his military training, Iris realizes it may have come from necessity. 

A sharp jolt pulls John from his nap quickly, and while he tries to brush it off, Iris can’t hide her grin. 

“How ya doing?” She pushes one of the water bottles she bought while he was snoozing towards him. John takes it and drinks it gratefully.

“I wish I could run on what little sleep Sherlock does.”

“Do you think he slept at all last night?” Iris wonders.

John shakes his head as he takes another sip.

“I’m lucky if I ever see him eat a full meal. Mostly I’m the one scarfing down food while he sits there and thinks out loud.”

Iris chuckles at the thought.

“Have you seen his website?” Iris asks as she closes her notebook.

John grins, “Oh yeah, one of the first things I did when I met him was look him up online.”

“Can he really tell an airline pilot by his left thumb?” Iris wonders amusedly, convinced that wasn’t possible. John nods seriously. 

“I don’t know how, but it’s bloody brilliant. He knew almost everything about me within the first few moments of meeting. Just by looking at my phone he deduced more than I thought possible. It can actually be annoying at times how accurate he is. Both him and his brother.”

“Ah yes, Mycroft Holmes. That man gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Iris shivers at the memory of being locked in a cab with him. John frowns.

“Yeah, not his biggest fan either. But somehow the brains in those two are astounding. So yes, everything Sherlock listed on his website as something he can ‘deduce’ is absolutely true.”

Iris shakes her head in disbelief. “Wow. I couldn’t believe he knew I was from Manhattan, thought maybe it was just a lucky guess, but the complexity of his website is astonishing.” John smiles in agreeance. He checks his watch and groans at the time.

“Is it really only four o’clock?” Iris nods to confirm. “Great, well. I’d say we’d better eat something else before Sherlock returns from wherever he is, I don’t know if I can go through that last exhibit again.” John rises and stretches. “Want anything?”

“I’ll try one of those pasta salads in the bowls I saw up front please, and anything chocolate you can find.” Iris smiles in thanks as John turns to retrieve their food. She reopens her notebook and is about to jot down some thoughts on deductions when Sherlock slides into the booth next to her.

“Still no sign of her, I’ve look in almost every back corner and room in the whole building.” 

“They let you have that kind of security clearance?” Iris asks.

“No, at least I looked in all the places I could sneak in myself. Almost got caught but I was too fast for the old man.” Sherlock smirks and looks around the little café. “Where’s John?”

“Grabbing some food, don’t know if you’d care to eat, or do you just run on air?” Iris asks playfully. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I dislike eating while on a case, the digestion slows me down.”

“But lack of nutrition and sustenance don’t slow you down? Interesting...” Iris eyes him suspiciously and Sherlock caves under her stare.

“Fine, when I have to, I usually steal some of John’s food when he’s not looking.” Sherlock admits with a grin.

John returns with Iris’ pasta salad, and a chocolate brownie, handing it over before digging into his own plate of chicken and rice. Iris reaches into her bag for her set of reusable cutlery, before handing the plastic fork over to Sherlock. He eyes it warily. She wiggles the fork teasingly, smiling when he takes it. She slides the bowl so it sits evenly between the two of them, and picks up her pen in her left hand as she takes a bite. Sherlock follows suit and stabs at a few pieces of pasta himself. John sits across from them in shock that Sherlock is eating anything, and Iris looks up with a simple shrug as she spears another piece. 

The meal kills a bit more time, adding in conversation and speculation on why Soo Lin is running from whoever the killer might be. Soon they hear over the speaker system that the museum will be closing soon. The three get up from their table, Iris gathering the trash and wrapping up her brownie in a napkin before stowing it away in her bag with her reusable fork. She tosses the remaining trash into the receptacle, and follows Sherlock and John back to the security desk where they met Andy that morning. 

After waiting in the dark for what feels like forever, Sherlock alerts them that he’s found Soo Lin, and soon Iris meets the young woman. She looks terrified and agitated, and Iris can’t help but feel sorry for her. Iris hopes that they’ll be able to help her escape whatever situation this is. They stand in a dimly lit room with tables and books set up for museum workers to do research and examine artwork.

Iris tries to follow the conversation, there’s Zhi Zhu or the ‘Spider,’ a very dangerous man who is probably the one after her, and Soon Lin shows a tattoo design on the bottom of her heel marking her as a foot soldier in a Chinese crime syndicate. The Black Lotus smuggles anything and everything across borders, their general someone named ‘Shan.’ 

Suddenly the lights cut out, causing Iris to jump. Soo Lin tenses up next to her.

“He’s here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me.” Soo Lin whispers, petrified.

John pulls Soo Lin and Iris down towards the floor, while Sherlock immediately takes off towards the door.

“Sherlock, wait!” John calls after him.

But he’s gone, and Iris watches John contemplate what he should do. She tries to keep from shaking and showing her fear, but she is grateful for the dark to hide it. The gunshot in the distance does not help, but it spurs John up from where they’re hiding on the floor.

“I’ve got to go and help him. Bolt the door after me.” Iris does as John says and quickly makes her way back over to Soo Lin.

“It’ll be okay, John and Sherlock will find him, stop him from hurting you.” Iris can’t tell if she’s saying this to calm just Soo Lin or also herself. Soo Lin stays quiet, and Iris sinks to the floor with her back to the now bolted door. More time passes in the dark, silent room, when suddenly Iris feels a soft breeze from a nearby window. Realizing that someone has opened it, she jumps up and before she can do anything else, an unknown object knocks her out and Iris crumples to the floor, blackness overtaking her vision.

John shakes Iris gently by the shoulders, until she opens her eyes hazily to look at him. There is a throbbing at the back of her skull, and a brief unawareness of what happened glazing over her. But John’s concerned face snaps her back to reality, and she sits up somewhat. 

“Iris, are you alright?” Concern written across John’s face, he keeps his hands on her shoulders, steadying her as she fully sits up. She nods, rubbing the back of her head.

“Yeah I think so, just been knocked out I think. Ouch.” John checks the back of her head, Iris realizing there is some medical training along with the military background she first noticed, grateful to have him there to help. 

“Think you can stand?” John helps her up carefully, Iris glad she can stand on her own feet without falling over.

“Where’s Soo Lin? I saw the window was open and I-” Iris starts to look around the room, only to see off in the shadow the silhouette of Soo Lin’s dead body. Laying across an array of loose papers and books is Soo Lin’s arm, hand open with a small black origami lotus in her palm. Iris inhales sharply, her hand going to her mouth in horror. “Oh no. Oh my god.” Iris nearly stumbles in trying to move towards her, John catching her.

“I know, I know. I’ve called the police, they’re on their way. We need to get out of here.” John starts to lead Iris out, tears welling in her eyes. They meet up with Sherlock down the hall, his face devoid of almost any emotion. 

“Detective Dimmock has to be able to do something now, can’t he Sherlock?” John asks angrily, one arm still around the back of Iris’ shoulders. 

“Let’s go make sure he does.” 

The three stay silent in the cab, tears slowly overflowing from Iris’ eyes as she cries silently next to John. She looks out the window trying to avoid making eye contact with either of them. Too distraught to navigate home alone, she decides to go with them to Scotland Yard. Lestrade must be out on vacation or sick, because Iris notices a new Detective, and also notices how strongly both John and Sherlock dislike the man. 

“How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac is out there? A young girl was gunned down tonight- three victims in three days. You’re supposed to be finding him...” John is irate, very upset, meanwhile Iris is mostly blank, sitting in a nearby chair, coat still on, barely listening to the men.

“Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called ‘The Black Lotus.’ Operating right here in London. Under your nose.” Sherlock looks sure in his thought process, though Detective Inspector Dimmock seems unconvinced.

“Can you prove that?” Dimmock retorts.

“Give me five minutes with both corpses and I can prove their connection.” 

Iris dislikes the idea of going to a morgue at this time of night, even more so after having just seen Soo Lin’s dead body not even an hour ago. She hopes maybe she can figure out how to get home. John looks over at her sitting with her bag in her lap, and walks over to her. 

“Hey, how’s your head? Still hurting?” Iris leans forward so John can check on the small bump that has now formed at the back of her head. 

“It’s fine. I’ll take something when I get back and it’ll be fine.” Iris says blankly. John looks over at Sherlock and Dimmock arguing over the corpses before making a decision. 

“Yeah, I’m going to get you back to Baker Street, let those two deal with the dead bodies, okay?” Relief washes over Iris, and she gratefully stands up. John walks back over towards Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I’m going to take Iris back, you go to the morgue without me.”

“But John-” Sherlock starts to protest.

“Just go, it won’t take long.” John turns on his heel and leads Iris out of the station. The cab ride is silent, Iris merely staring blankly out the window. Rain begins to fall, dripping down the windows in streaks and droplets, Iris following them as they descend.

 _Pouring down rain, soaked to the skin, waiting at the bus stop. Shivering cold._ Iris shivers in her thick coat, unable to shake the freezing feeling. John looks over and watches her carefully. Before Iris can say anything, more memories flood. _The old house she first lived in when she was put in foster care, rain dripping from the ceiling into an array of pots and pans. Bundled up with a couple of other kids only a few years younger than her, huddled for warmth. Flashes to the hospital room after one of them got pneumonia. Another flash and it’s suddenly the grave where the little boy was buried, rain pelting them even under umbrellas during the service._ Memories even from so long ago punch her in the gut like they were yesterday. 

Iris manages to pull herself from the past, only to realize the present is full of just as much sorrow. She clutches her bag closer to her and reaches up to wipe a tear that had escaped down her cheek. John doesn’t say anything, only turns his hand over on his knee, opened as an invitation in case Iris wanted it. Wordlessly, Iris reaches out and puts her hand in John’s, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. 

The rain lets up slightly when they make it back to Baker Street, and John walks her back to the door of her flat, knocking on Mrs. Hudson’s next door. She opens it slightly confused, in her robe.

“John, Iris, what’s happened?"

“Had a bit of a rough evening, wondered if you might be able to make Iris here a cuppa?” 

Mrs. Hudson sees the red-rimmed eyes and sadness in Iris’ face, and immediately opens the door all the way, ushering her inside. 

“I’ve got you dear, thank you John, you want one too?”

“No, thanks though, I’d better catch up with Sherlock.”

Iris turns before completely entering Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him, I should have...” She looks at her feet. “I don’t know what I should have done, but I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.”

John looks at her sadly. “It’s not your fault, Iris. He’s a trained killer, he was going to kill Soo Lin whether you were there or not. I’m just glad he didn’t kill you as well.” 

Iris simply nods, turning back to Mrs. Hudson and following her into her kitchen, hearing the front door close behind John.

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t ask a lot of questions, thankfully, instead talking about some makeover show on the television to occupy Iris’ mind. The tea helps shake off the chill Iris felt earlier in the cab, and the conversation starts to bring her back to a somewhat neutral reality. She helps Mrs. Hudson with the dishes, Iris drying as Mrs. Hudson washes. 

An hour or two pass and Iris returns to her flat, deciding to scroll through Sherlock’s website on her laptop, trying to understand more of what he does on his cases. She hears the front door open, signaling the two men have returned, but chooses to stay downstairs, having had enough adventuring for the day. 

It’s not until nearly two hours later, just when Iris was about to go to bed, still in her jeans and tee shirt, but with slippers instead of boots and thicker navy cardigan for warmth, that there’s a knock on the front door. Not sure if Mrs. Hudson is still awake, Iris goes to open it. It’s Detective Dimmock and a few others with carts and carts of books. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson is behind her, asking if they’re collecting for a charity.

“No I think they’re delivering them for Sherlock and John upstairs. This is Detective Inspector Dimmock.” Iris explains, leading Mrs. Hudson and the others upstairs to their flat. Iris knocks on the door and John answers, surprised to see her and even more surprised at the people standing behind her.

“Delivery.” Iris says with a bit of a smile, hoping to show John she’s better than she was in the cab earlier that evening.

Soon the flat is filled with boxes of books, some labeled with ‘Lukis’ and the others ‘Van Coon.’ John sits at the table while Sherlock stands behind a giant stack of boxes, opening the top one. Mrs. Hudson helped show the men back downstairs, leaving Iris standing in the doorway completely overcome with curiosity. Why all the books? She’s about to ask when Sherlock answers it for her.

“So. The numbers- they’re references.” Sherlock points over to the photos taped to the mirror.

“To books?” Iris asks, still not quite getting it.

“To specific pages. And specific words on those pages.”

“Right. So... ‘15’ and ‘1’... That means...” John joins, picking up a book on the desk.

“You turn to page fifteen and it’s the first word that you read.” Sherlock explains further.

“Ok. So? What’s the message?” Iris leaves her place in the doorway to join Sherlock on the other side of his stack.

“Depends on the book. It would never be the same book twice. That’s the cunning of a book code. It’s got to be something they both own.” Sherlock begins to search through the top two boxes of books, one from Van Coon’s side and the other from Lukis’.

“Ok, fine. Well this shouldn’t take too long, should it?” John says sarcastically. Iris snorts quietly as she begins shifting the books so they’re all facing the same way, streamlining things somewhat for Sherlock.

Dimmock returns back up the stairs, entering with some clear envelopes that Iris remembers from Scotland Yard.

“We found these. At the museum. Is this your writing?” He offers them to Sherlock, and Iris recognizes the photos of the ciphers, with her scribbled numbers across the pages. Sherlock mostly ignores them, focused on the task at hand so Dimmock offers them to John.

“We hoped maybe she could decipher it.” Iris swallows, refocusing herself on the books, trying not to think of Soo Lin right now. They had a chance to find the person who did this, and Iris was not going to let her emotions stop her from helping. 

“Anything else I can do?” Dimmock asks, and Iris smiles with her back to him when she realizes he hasn’t quite read the room to know he’s definitely not wanted right now. “To assist you, I mean.” He adds when Sherlock directly ignores him. Sherlock lifts another pair of books, not even moving his eyes towards Dimmock.

“Some silence would be marvelous.” Sherlock retorts. And with that, Dimmock leaves.

Sherlock manages to find the first pair, opening the random novel to page 15. He mutters “is” to himself, and Iris knows that’s not the book they’re looking for. He pushes the pair aside and Iris takes them over to John who’s cataloguing all the pairs they find. 

“The thing about a book code- it has to be a book that all of the gang members own. And one that they all have access to...” Sherlock explains, after another countless finding of the word “twiddle.”

Whether it was the tea or the new task to focus on, Iris doesn’t find herself tiring as they search through endless amounts of books. Soon sunlight is streaming through the windows, and John’s wristwatch beeps an alarm. He quiets it before doing a double take and realizing the hour.

“Oh god, no. I have to go.” John pulls himself out of his chair at the desk, rubbing his face with both hands. He groans and moves to get his coat.

“Where are you going? It’s nearly 6am.” Iris asks, moving another set of pairs on the floor, the desk now completely covered with previous pairs.

“I have to go to work. I got a job at this GP’s Surgery. I’m going to be late, and now another night of basically no sleep.”

“You slept yesterday, didn’t you?” Sherlock says without looking up. He opens another book to the fifteenth page and slams it shut. Iris doesn’t want to guess what word it was this time.

“Yeah, for two hours thanks to you. Anyway, I’ll see you both later.” John exits in a huff, leaving Iris and Sherlock alone.

The two work in a comfortable silence, Iris organizing a few steps ahead of Sherlock stacking pairs from both boxes, and Sherlock checks each book to see if it might be the right one. Many hours pass and Sherlock is growing more and more frustrated. 

Iris manages to scrounge up some tea and lunch for herself from the kitchen later in the day, though, the cupboards are mostly bare save for some very strange and moldy looking experiments. Iris avoids a jar that she can’t decide if they’re olives or eyeballs, and sticks to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Iris makes two sandwiches, but cuts up the second one into smaller bite sized pieces on a separate plate for Sherlock. She places it in his general vicinity, and without looking up from his books Iris watches Sherlock take the pieces and eat them. More time passes and more books fall in piles to the floor. After another angry slam of some books to the ground, Iris has an idea.

“What is a book that everyone would own?” Iris asks. Sherlock looks up at her question. “You know, like how in every hotel room there’s a Bible or there’s always classic sets of books at coffee shops or bookstores, The Odyssey, Moby Dick, that kind of thing.” Sherlock turns to his bookshelf behind them, reaching up for the Bible, and a handful of others Iris can’t quite see. He plops them down on the box between them, and they split the pile in two.

Flipping to the fifteenth page results in nothing remarkable for either of them. Iris closes the last one in the stack dejectedly.

“Good idea, just not the right books.” Sherlock adds, somewhat lost in thought. 

The thought is interrupted as John returns, and Iris realizes that while she didn’t notice, John had returned and gone straight up to his room to shower and change. His somewhat rumpled clothes from earlier he replaced with a smart sports jacket and freshly shined shoes. 

“I need to get some air to the brain. We’re going out tonight.” Sherlock says, before noticing John in the doorway. Sensing a bit of a break, Iris sets herself down in John’s chair at the desk.

“Actually- I’ve got a date.” John announces, adjusting his jacket.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.” Iris defines, suddenly wondering if Sherlock is even the ‘dating’ type to really know.

“That’s what I was suggesting.” Sherlock remarks, and Iris wonders if she had been included in the earlier 'we’re going out tonight.’ 

“No it wasn’t.” John pauses, eyeing Sherlock. “At least I hope not...”

Sherlock moves to his suit jacket draped on the back of a chair, reaching for his wallet. “Where are you taking her?” He asks, seemingly unfazed by the recent definition of a ‘date.’

“Cinema.” John answers somewhat proudly.

“Hardly original. What about this? Circus. In London for one night only.” Sherlock pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it over to John. He takes it and examines it.

“Thanks, but I don’t come to you for dating advice.” 

Iris yawns unexpectedly, breaking whatever tension there was between the two men. Their relationship as flatmates and coworkers was growing increasingly curious the more time Iris spent with them. But now John going out on a date with a woman seems to clear some of it up? Iris still doesn't quite know, but soon John nods his head and turns on his heel out the door. Sherlock watches him go, and then runs his hands through his dark hair, shaking out the curls and standing up straight.

“Well, how about it Iris, want to go to the circus?” 

Iris looks up at Sherlock from her chair, amazed he remembered she was still in the room. 

“Like on a date?” Iris asks quite confusedly. 

“No, I only said that to mess with John, thought it might be a bit of fun.”

Iris nods. “I mean sure, I’d love to go to the circus. Is it one with animals though? I really dislike those...”

“No, acrobatics and escape art magic.” Sherlock picks up his suit jacket and puts it on, moving a few piles of books out of the way from the fortress-like barricade that accidentally formed throughout the night. Iris stands, still in her slippers and tee shirt, and realizes she should change.

“Sounds great. Let me go downstairs real quick and change, can’t exactly go in my slippers. I’ll meet you downstairs in five.” Sherlock nods and Iris makes her way back to her flat.

Five minutes later Iris bundles her coat around her and joins Sherlock as he opens the front door to the street. While Sherlock hails a cab, Iris thinks aloud about the last time she saw a circus.

“I haven’t been to the circus since I was about ten... It was a Tuesday holiday in April that our foster mom didn’t feel like keeping us at home for, so she rounded the five of us up in the car and took us to the circus. They had these four trapeze artists and at least a dozen clowns... didn’t care for the clowns much.” Sherlock chuckles slightly at the common phobia, opening the door to the cab for her. They settle in and the cabbie takes off towards the venue.

“They had this one elephant who looked so sad wearing her polka dot hat, but when I saw she was coming out I took my cotton candy and ran out of the tent. It was pouring down rain, and my blue cotton candy melted all over my pink Hello Kitty shirt.” Iris starts to fade in her story as the details from that day cloud her vision. Sherlock, who was mostly engrossed in his phone, looks over at Iris. He studies her intently, realizing she’s no longer speaking but lost in whatever memory she was just describing.

“That’s some memory you’ve got, if you can still remember all that.” Sherlock mentions, trying to pull her back from wherever it was she went. Iris blinks a few times and inhales, realizing what’s happened. She shakes her head and tries to laugh it off.

“Sorry, yeah sometimes my memories are a bit... vivid. Can’t quite control it, just have to ride it out. Sorry about that.” Iris feels Sherlock’s eyes studying her, but she can’t bring herself to look at him. 

“Does it happen often?” 

Not wanting to be a lab rat again, Iris shakes her head. “No, not that often, it’s nothing, really.” Sherlock seems to take the hint and, for now, leaves her be.

Sherlock engrosses himself in his phone, Iris choosing to look out the window at the city around her, anywhere but at Sherlock. 

They arrive at the venue, Iris noticing immediately the Chinese lanterns and giant sign reading “The Yellow Dragon Circus.’ Iris starts to wonder if Sherlock wasn’t quite so random in his choice of venue for the evening. She wonders if John ended up taking his date to the movies like he said, but her wondering falls short when she notices him and a pretty woman across the room standing at the box office window. 

“Sherlock, they showed up. John and his date.”

Sherlock grins, his Belstaff collar popped around him, gloved hands clasped in front of him. “Just as I thought.”

“Are we... are we crashing his date Sherlock?” Iris asks, slightly concerned as to how John will react, especially given the whole date conversation they had earlier. Sherlock doesn’t respond, only moves closer to John and his date. Iris hears the box office manager say that he actually has four tickets under the name ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Iris realizes Sherlock is quite sneakier than she first thought he could be. 

“Oh, no. I think that’s an error. He booked two.” John tries correcting him, confused.

“And then I phoned back and got one for myself and one for Iris.” Sherlock looks so pleased with his plan, but Iris notices John’s shoulders tense, and she wonders what the rest of this night will look like. 

John pulls Sherlock off towards the stairwell leading up to the theatre, awkwardly leaving Iris and the pretty brown haired woman behind. Iris decides to break the ice.

“Hi there, I’m Iris.” She offers her hand. The woman takes it warmly.

“Hi, I’m Sarah. Are you here with Sherlock?” She glances over at the two men.

“No, I mean, I’m just their downstairs neighbor, Sherlock was working on a case and said he needed some air, and thought I would want to tag along.” 

Sarah still looks off towards John. “Ahh, I see.” Iris can’t tell if she’s upset over the crashing of her date as well.

“I really had no idea John was going to bring you here, Sherlock offered the idea and John didn’t seem interested, seems I misjudged Sherlock’s plan.” Iris laughs self-deprecatingly. Sarah turns back to her and smiles. 

“Oh it’s alright, no harm done.” The lights dim in the lobby signaling the start, and the two decide to join Sherlock and John, regardless of if their conversation was finished or not. 

They approach the two men, John’s back to them, when very distinctly they hear: “Whilst I’m trying to get off with Sarah!” John turns when he realizes there are people behind him, and Iris bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Sarah either didn’t hear him or is choosing to ignore it, because they all just walk up the stairs like nothing happened. 

The act plays out in front of them, Iris completely mesmerized by the performers. Instead of a stage there is a large circular area marked off by lanterns on the ground, with the audience standing around on the same level. There is a loud drumming beat and light flute music, setting the tone for a beautifully dressed entertainer in long flowing red robes and a great elaborate headpiece to enter and unveil a giant cross bow. The mechanism sits on a wooden stand, lavishly dressed and designed with different patterns. On the back of the contraption is a large metal cup, almost like a catapult. The woman loads the front of the cross bow with a thick wooden spear about the length of her arm. 

Across the wooden stand is a tall board, with the outline of a man on it. The woman dramatically pulls a single feather off her headdress, and gently drops it into the metal cup. Suddenly, and with immense force, the wooden spear flies across the stage and stabs the tall board, right where the heart of a man would be. Iris jumps at the noise, and wonders who would willingly stand in front of that deadly of a machine. 

The beating of the drum swells, and a large masked warrior enters. He wears all black and his mask is quite terrifying. Iris tries not to think about the clowns from her first circus, instead following him as he walks over to the plank across from the crossbow. Men on either side of him shackle the warrior in heavy chains, his arms crossed and bolted across his chest, and then finally his whole body chained to the plank behind him.

“I think I know what’s coming.” John whispers to the left of Iris. He’s whispering to Sarah on the other side of him, with Sherlock standing behind Iris.

“Dear God. What are they going to do now?” Sarah asks, slightly terrified.

“Ancient Chinese escapology act. The crossbow is on a delicate spring. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires.” Sherlock explains. Iris again wonders who would choose to do something like this, but then again, she’s not a trained circus performer. Maybe this was just another normal Friday for them.

“Well, that sounds like ideal entertainment for a Friday night.” John smirks. A loud bang of the chains locking into place erupts over the drumming, causing Sarah to jump and clutch to John for comfort. Iris can feel Sherlock eyeing the two of them but decides to focus on the warrior in front of her. 

The woman in red reloads the crossbow, as a long golden rope lowers from the ceiling. On one end of the rope hangs a large sandbag, the other a massive round weight. 

“They split the sandbag so the sand pours out. The weight is gradually lowered onto the bowl. Classic Chinese circus act.” Sherlock remarks with a sense of wonderment.

“I would have been happy with a bit of juggling and a couple of clowns.” John retorts.

“Dear God, please no clowns.” Iris jokes, looking back at Sherlock with a smirk. 

The woman takes out a hefty knife and cuts a gash in the sandbag, and they all watch the sand pour out and onto the floor. The warrior in his chains begins to struggle tirelessly at his bindings. Iris watches the sand pour faster and faster out of the bag, the metal weight lowering closer and closer to the metal cup. Iris tenses as she watches the warrior struggle, suddenly freeing one of his arms, and then the other, managing to undo the lock at his waist. Just when it seems like he has no more time, the metal weight hits the cup, the warrior ducks to the floor, and the wooden spear slices through the plank with a loud bang. The audience breaks out into applause, Iris included.

“How about that...?” John turns to where he thinks Sherlock is behind him, but he realizes that Sherlock has slipped off somewhere. His eyes land on Iris who simply shrugs. As the stage is being set for another act, Iris leans over to John.

“I’m really sorry we crashed your date, after you left Sherlock asked if I’d be interested and I figured why not? If I had known his plan I would have stayed home.” She admits sheepishly, hoping John will understand.

“No worries, no one can keep up with wherever his head is, so don’t even worry about it.” He smiles at her and she exhales, relieved. The same ornately dressed woman from before reappears.

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlit shores of the Yangtze river, we present for your pleasure... the deadly Chinese bird spider.” Iris tenses at the mention of ‘Chinese spider,’ thinking back to Soo Lin and the man who killed all those people. Iris hopes it’s just a coincidence, but fears that isn’t quite the case.

A large grey silk drops down from the ceiling, and a thin, tall man also in grey appears. He begins to climb the rope and the audience watches as he swiftly and effortlessly climbs through the air and winds himself amongst the silk.

Suddenly there is a loud crash, and two figures fall from a curtained ledge slightly above the stage. Iris jumps and looks across the way to realize she recognizes one of the figures. 

Sherlock seems to be wrestling with the warrior from the first act. He calls out, “John!” and John takes off after him. Sarah stands there somewhat stunned, but Iris jumps behind her and follows John. The masked warrior manages to punch John as well, sending him flying back into more curtains. 

Iris sees a wooden plank on the floor, picking it up and whacking the warrior over the head. Unexpectedly, Sarah is next to her with a plank of her own, and the two manage to get in a few decent blows, knocking him out completely. John pulls himself out from the mess of curtains he was in, rubbing his jaw, and Sherlock jumps up from his spot on the ground, going for the warrior’s shoe. He pulls it off, revealing the same mark Iris saw on Soo Lin’s foot at the museum. The Black Lotus, a sign that these people are a part of a smuggling ring. As Sarah goes over to John, Iris kneels down next to Sherlock on the floor, by the knocked-out warrior’s foot.

“You alright?” 

“Yes, just fine.” Sherlock rises, Iris following suit. He straightens his coat and looks over at John and Sarah chatting. The warrior starts to stir below them, and Sherlock motions for Iris to follow him, the group running out of the venue and into the cold London night. 

Iris stays with Sarah in a nearby conference room while John and Sherlock speak with Detective Inspector Dimmock. Iris tries to catch Sarah up to speed on what’s been happening, though Sarah doesn’t quite seem to believe all that’s being said. Eventually Sherlock and John collect them from the conference room, and they all share a cab back to Baker Street. 

“They’ll be back in China by tomorrow.” John says as they climb the stairs.

“They won’t leave. Not without finding what they came for. We need to find a hideout- a rendezvous.” Sherlock opens to the door to the flat, revealing all the books they left earlier. Iris begins to reorganize and stack the books aside while Sherlock goes right back to the photos at the mirror. “Somewhere in this message- it must tell us.” John joins him at the mirror while Iris continues restacking books. Sarah stands awkwardly in the doorway.

“Well. I think maybe I should leave you to it.” Sarah says, about to turn and go. Then, at the exact same time both Sherlock and John speak, their words clashing over the other:

Sherlock: “Yes. It would be easier to study if you left now.”  
John: “Oh, you don’t have to go yet... does she Sherlock? Stay a bit.”

Iris silently chuckled to herself in the awkward pause. Then John speaks up.

“He’s kidding. Stay if you like.”

“Is it just me? Or is anyone else starving?” Sarah offers. Iris can audibly hear Sherlock groan, but he continues his studying of the photos. Iris rises with some books in her hands.

“Always, these two never seem to stop moving so some food would be great.” Iris smiles at Sarah, and they watch John smile nervously as he goes into the kitchen. Sarah joins Iris and begins to help her stack some books. Sarah looks around the cluttered flat.

“So. This is what you do. You and John.” Sherlock doesn’t respond. “You solve puzzles. For a living.”

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock throws out, uninterested in furthering the conversation beyond that. Iris catalogs the term, piecing together this must be what Scotland Yard uses him as, seeing as how he’s not an official detective through the department. 

Sherlock leaves his place at the mirror to sit down at the desk, trying to move through the mounds of papers and books. Sarah, curious, watches over his shoulder. 

“What are these squiggles?” Sarah asks, and Sherlock visibly tenses at the intrusion.

“They’re numbers. Written in an ancient Chinese dialect.” Sherlock responds curtly. Sarah straightens herself up and looks over to Iris.

“Of course. Yes. Should have known that.” She teases, and Iris laughs. She hears Mrs. Hudson come up the stairs and join John in the kitchen, and Iris wonders if she brought up something edible as even Iris could barely find much to eat earlier that day. 

Iris turns her attention to the desk, trying to straighten up the mess of papers that accumulated over the past couple of days. She uncovers the plastic sealed envelope that Dimmock brought back from the museum, and Iris breaks the seal, planning to tack up the other photos with the ones on the mirror, when something catches her eye.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks up from whatever book he was flipping through, Sarah coming around to look over her shoulder.

“Two of the words, they’ve been translated somehow.” She offers the page over to Sherlock, and John joins them from the kitchen, setting the tray of food down on the desk. 

“But how?” John asks, looking at the page over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Soo Lin- at the museum- she started to translate the code for us.” Sherlock deduces.

“I bolted the door after John left, I didn’t even see she was working at the table it was so dark.” Iris comments, trying to remember back and see if she could recall seeing a book on the table. 

“‘Nine Mill’...?” Sherlock reads.

“Maybe it means ‘million.’” John offers.

“Nine million quid... for what? We need the end of the sentence.” Sherlock gets up hastily and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” John asks.

“To the Museum. The Restoration Office- we must have been staring at it.” Sherlock has his coat on and is tying his scarf.

“What?” John asks, still not picking up wherever Sherlock’s head is at the moment.

“The book, John- the book. The key to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst you and I were running round the galleries she started to translate the code. That book is in her office!” And with that Sherlock is down the stairs and out the door.

Sarah reaches over and grabs some chips from the bowl, John only shaking his head at Sherlock’s confusing exit. Iris leans against the desk, wondering what book it might be.

“No, it’s fine. A quiet night in is really just what the Doctor ordered. I mean- I love going out and wrestling with Chinese gangsters. But a girl can get too much.” Sarah teases, pulling Iris out of her thoughts. Iris suddenly realizes she is the third wheel in the room, and stands up to retrieve her coat.

“Do you want take out?” John asks, what Iris assumes is just Sarah, but then he adds, “You’re welcome to order with us if you’d like, Iris.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t want to intrude on your date more than I already have, I’ll just head back down to my flat. Thank you though.” Iris heads downstairs, leaving John and his date to do whatever they were hoping to do before she and Sherlock crashed their outing. 

Not even five minutes later the doorbell rings, which Iris finds odd if they had just ordered food upstairs. She figures maybe it’s someone else and exits her flat to go answer it. By the time she gets to the door, John is right behind her, thinking the doorbell was his food.

“Sorry, I thought that was too quick for your food, you can answer it.” Iris smiles and lets John open the door. She’s about to turn and head back when she hears a strange voice.

“Do you have it?”

“What?” John asks, the question pulling Iris back to the door. She sees a man in the shadow and can’t quite make out who it is.

“Do you have the treasure?” The man asks hurriedly.

“I don’t understand...” John says, but before either he or Iris can do anything, the man in shadow pulls out a revolver and smacks John across the face, sending him to the floor. Iris goes to bend down towards him, only to be hit herself, sending her world into complete blackness.

A dull throbbing is the first thing Iris acknowledges as she comes back into consciousness. She opens her eyes to see she’s in a massively cavernous room. The only light comes from candles around them and giant barrels of fire littered across the area. Iris sits in a chair, bound with thick, scratchy rope at her wrists behind her and ankles below her. To her left sits John, in similar bindings, and unfortunately next to him sits Sarah, bound like them but also gagged with a cloth. Sarah sits there, actively sobbing, though somewhat muffled with the gag. John suddenly awakens, taking in his surroundings, eyes going wide at Sarah next to him. 

A drop of, what she hopes is, water hits Iris on the forehead, and she looks up to see nothing but darkness, looking down and seeing steel tracks of some kind on the ground. Iris and John make eye contact, but before either can say a word, their captors make their presence known. 

The ornately dressed woman from the show earlier stands in front of them, with two large men, thugs would be the word Iris would later describe them as, flanking behind her.

“A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket.” The woman says coolly. John cocks his head in confusion. “Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes.” 

She somehow thinks John is Sherlock? Iris scrunches her forehead in puzzlement, wincing at the pain throbbing from her forehead where they hit her.

“I’m not actually...” John inhales sharply, and Iris sees the blood dripping down from the cut on his forehead. “I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”

“Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.” The woman approaches John, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. Surely this will prove John’s identity, Iris hopes. The woman rifles through it and produces a bank card. “Debit card. Name of S. Holmes.”

“Ah. That’s not actually mine. He leant that to me...” John tries to correct. “For the shopping.” He adds when Iris silently asks why he has Sherlock’s card.

Again the woman goes through John’s wallet.

“And a check for five thousand pounds. Made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“He asked me to look after that for him...” John says weakly, and Iris realizes that while she knows John is not Sherlock, to this crazy individual these signs do add up and put them all in a boatload of trouble. Iris also realizes that there is one more physical piece of paper that will probably add to this confusion. Out of the wallet is the envelope with the ticket stubs from the venue earlier.

“Tickets. From the theatre. Collected by you. Name of Holmes.”

Iris hangs her still throbbing head, unsure how they’re going to walk their way back from this. John arrives at the same conclusion.

“Yes. Ok. I realize how this looks, but honestly, I’m not him...” 

“We heard it from your own mouth.” The woman says, causing Iris to pull her head up. Now that surely isn’t true. “‘I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with my massive intellect.’”

Iris lets out a snort. “That’s called sarcasm, he wasn’t actually saying he’s Sherlock. This man is not Sherlock Holmes. I know him, I live in the same building as him. This, this man is John Watson.” 

“Be quiet you!” The woman pulls out a small revolver and points it right at Iris’s forehead. She freezes in absolute fear. The woman then turns the gun onto John. “Your friend John writes a fascinating blog- I read it every day. I’ve made an intricate study of you. But you- you know nothing about your most devoted fan. I am Shan.”

“You’re Shan?” John asks, breathing heavily.

She cocks the trigger, still aimed at his forehead. John squirms and Iris tries to stay calm, though her brain is rapid firing emotions and warnings, forcing her to focus on her breathing. 

“Three times we’ve tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?” She pauses for what must be dramatic effect, causing John and Iris to both squirm more, Sarah still silently crying, her eyes closed. Then, Shan pulls the trigger, but the barrel must have been empty because it simply clicks loudly and John remains breathing and alive. He sighs greatly, still eyeing the gun to his head. “It tells you they’re not really trying.”

Shan then reloads the gun, “Not blank bullets now. If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive. Do you have it?”

“Do I have what?” John pants, still worked up from the first misfire and now the fully loaded firearm in his face. 

“The treasure.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John says, yet again.

“I would prefer to make certain.” Shan moves to a giant object underneath a big sheet. She unveils the object to reveal the same crossbow contraption from the show earlier. “Everything in the West has its price. And the price for her life, information.” Shan motions over to Sarah and when Shan says ‘her,’ Iris’ stomach drops. The men start to move toward Sarah when suddenly Iris’ voice returns.

“No! Her life doesn’t mean anything to him, they’ve only just met.” The men pause, turning to Shan for their next move. Iris exhales deeply, hoping they’ll leave Sarah alone.

“Ah, but for this next part, I may need a volunteer from the audience. And she’s-”

“I volunteer.” Iris cuts Shan off, barely believing the sentence as she says it. Shan smiles wide, almost scary in its joy. 

“Very well.” Shan motions with her hand and the two men lift up her chair, Iris tries to struggle, but sees it’s pointless. John attempts to undo his bindings, to no avail. The men settle Iris directly in front of the giant crossbow, cursing herself for her earlier thoughts of who in their right mind would choose to sit in front of this horrible thing. It looks like she’s one of them. Shan turns to John.

“Where’s the hairpin?”

“What?” John asks, neither him nor Iris remembering anything about a hairpin.

“The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling? We already had a buyer in the West and then one of our people was greedy, he took it, brought it back to London, and you, Mr. Holmes, have been searching.”

“Again, he’s not Sherlock Holmes.” Iris offers quietly from her side of the cavernous tunnel. Shan turns around and points the gun back at Iris, quelling any other outbursts. John tries to get her attention back.

“Please, please. Listen to me. I’m not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven’t found whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“It looks like I will be needing that volunteer after all.” Shan turns away from John.

“No, please, please!” John calls out.

“Ah, thank you lady. Yes, you’ll do very nicely.” Iris notices the giant sandbag above the crossbow’s metal bow for the first time, right before Shan slices a nice hole in the bottom of it. Iris’ eyes widen as the sand begins to pour out, and that same metal weight lowers from up above. She begins to fight more with her restraints, unsuccessfully trying to knock herself over or out of the way. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant, moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes’ pretty companion in a death-defying act.” 

“Please!” John calls out, fighting with his restraints. Shan leans down to Iris’s eye level and deposits a small black origami lotus flower, the same one in Soo Lin’s dead palm, in her lap.

“You’ve seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends.”

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” John shouts.

“I don’t believe you.” Shan responds.

Abruptly, a voice rings out from the dark, a thankfully familiar voice. “You should, you know. Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him. How would you describe me, John?” Shan turns away to try and locate Sherlock’s voice, aiming her gun into the dark. “Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?” John responds. Iris, still acutely aware of her impending doom, continues to struggle.

“That’s a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over 1,000 meters per second.” Sherlock calls out.

“Well?” Shan comments, still unable to pinpoint where Sherlock is in the darkness.

“Well,” There is a loud thud as Iris assumes Sherlock has managed to knock out one of Shan’s henchmen. “The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.” Iris, still staring down the large spear aimed right for her, groans as she tries to understand if Sherlock will ever arrive at a point soon. 

A loud clang ricochets across the tunnel, and Iris recoils as Sherlock kicked over one of the large barrels into the other henchman, knocking him out. Seeing both her henchmen unconscious, Shan decides to run. Iris, still squirming in her seat, feels Sherlock behind her at her wrists rapidly trying to untie her. Suddenly one of the henchmen has Sherlock by the neck with a long piece of fabric, and Iris tries desperately to finish untying what Sherlock had started. She hears him struggling behind her, and looks up at the sandbag still lowering at a steady rate.

John manages to get to his feet somewhat, trying to make his way across the room, but falling over before he gets close enough. Iris’ breathing increases rapidly as the weight gets closer and closer to the cup. Inching his way on the ground, John manages to get closer, but time is running out. Iris feels this may be the end, and closes her eyes. John, not giving up, manages the last few feet before he can reach and kick the contraption just as the weight hits the cup, shifting the crossbow off its original target, sending the spear right into the henchman attacking Sherlock. Iris opens her eyes with a loud gasp, sending her breathing into a bit of a frenzy. Sherlock, now free, returns to untying her wrists.

“It’s all right. You’re going to be all right. It’s over now.” Sherlock tries to calm her down, John still struggling on the ground. Sherlock frees Iris’ wrists, moving in front of her to undo her ankles. Iris starts to sob, both hands covering her face as she leans forward, her head hitting Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock pauses from his untying to wrap both his arms around her, rubbing one hand up and down her back soothingly. “Shh, it’s all right, you’re all right.” He waits for her breathing to calm before letting go, untying the last knot and freeing her. 

Iris, having cried herself quiet, numbly stands and watches as Sherlock goes over to untie and remove the gag from Sarah and then untie John. John moves over and wraps Sarah in a tight hug, her still crying but relieved it’s all over. Sherlock comes back into Iris’ focus, though slightly hazy and out of focus. 

“Come on, the police will be here soon. Let’s get you back.” Iris nods dully, allowing Sherlock to put an arm behind her back and lead her out. Soon the whole street adjacent to the tunnel fills with police cars and flashing blue lights. An ambulance arrives as well, with blankets put over both Sarah and Iris’ shoulders. Sarah, more shocked than anything, calmly accepts the blanket and follows John out and away from the scene, John looking back over his shoulder at Iris. Iris smiles half-heartedly, hoping John can’t see that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but hopes he knows she all is right. At least she hopes she’s all right. 

Thankfully, Sherlock stays near her, noticing Dimmock by one of the cars. He looks at Iris, “I’m going to just talk to Dimmock briefly and then we can head back. All right?” Iris wraps the blanket around her shoulders tighter and nods. She watches the two exchange a few words, then he returns and leads her out to the main road. They hail a cab and Sherlock helps her in. 

Iris begins the ride leaning against the door, her head on the glass window, but the adrenaline having fully left her system has Iris crying silently. She tries to sit up straight and wipe away the tears, but they just keep flowing. Iris leans her head back on the headrest, turning to look at Sherlock, who’s lost deep in thought out the window. Before she can talk herself out of it, Iris leans her head against Sherlock’s shoulder, deciding to let her need for comfort override her self-control. Sherlock doesn’t move to put an arm around her, or even really acknowledge her, but he does slide his shoulder up slightly so Iris’ head isn’t at as difficult an angle. Iris sees that comfort and caring is not quite in this man’s wheelhouse, but she’s grateful he at least didn’t push her away. Slowly, minute by minute, she pulls her breathing back to normal.

They arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock paying for the cab and then opening the front door for her. Before entering though, Iris notices a trash bin outside the café and balls up the hideous yellow blanket from around her shoulders, tossing it in. Sherlock doesn’t ask and Iris doesn’t offer why, she’s just glad to be rid of the thing and hopefully rid of this evening. Iris goes to her front door, offering a quiet, “Goodnight Sherlock,” before disappearing behind her door. She hears Sherlock call a soft, “Night,” as he climbs the stairs. 

A long hot shower and a serious cry later, Iris curls up in bed, realizing it’s been almost two full days since she’s slept in her bed. Grateful for the comfort, she realizes she desperately misses Sam and wishes he were here to hug her tight. Grabbing one of the other pillows, Iris clutches it firmly, somehow managing to drift off into a hard, dreamless sleep. 

Iris wakes up the next day, nearly fourteen hours later, in the same position, pillow clutched in front of her. She stretches and hears multiple popping noises in various joints. Another hot shower and a mug of tea seem to bring things back to homeostasis for Iris, though she still feels the intense shock from the previous night racing through her mind. 

Memories from it haunt her as she goes about her day, stopping her in her tracks as she cooks herself some pasta or tries to write in her journal. Eventually she thinks maybe a walk will help, and grabs her coat to go up and down Baker Street. The day is spent alone, save for the strangers on the street, and Iris is glad to have the solitude. Her evening passes quietly, other than the bursts of memories and intense emotions flooding over her. 

Having slept so much the night before, and taking some melatonin to fall asleep early, Iris wakes up the next morning almost before 7am, something unheard of for her night owl tendencies. She decides to reorganize her clothes, as some had been haphazardly strewn about in her quick changing the days prior. In looking at her hangers in the closet, Iris realizes her fluffy cardigan she had been wearing while helping the boys with their books is missing. She deduces it must be upstairs, so she puts on her slippers and a different, still fluffy, cardigan to head up.

Iris knocks lightly on the door that is mostly ajar, seeing the two men at the desk with their morning tea and respective breakfasts. Iris catches a glimpse of the headline on Sherlock’s newspaper, laughing at the pun. Sherlock and John both turn to her at the door, John rising as he sets his teacup down.

“Iris, hi, how are you?” He moves to open the door fully, letting her in. She points to the paper hung frozen in Sherlock’s hands.

“That pun is godawful, you know. ‘Who wants to be a million-hair’?” She tuts playfully, hoping they don’t pity her too much for her crying so much these past few days. “So I guess the treasure they smuggled in was a hair pin?” Sherlock folds up the paper and nods. John sits back down, still eyeing Iris carefully, wondering how she is.

“Over a thousand years old. And it’s sitting on the bedside table of Van Coon’s PA.” John explains, and Iris can’t quite believe all the chaos that was caused over a small little hairpin.

“He didn’t know its value; didn’t know why they were chasing him.” Sherlock adds.

“Should have just bought her one of those lucky cat figures, you know the one with the paw.” Iris suggests, mimicking the little yellow cat statues she sees in most Chinese shop windows. John laughs like he knows exactly what she means, and Sherlock smiles. There’s a slightly awkward pause. “Well, um, I just realized I think I left my cardigan up here... Just came back for it.” Iris spots it on the end of the couch, and moves over to collect it. John clears his throat.

“So um, Iris, are you... Are you okay?” Iris moves back towards the doorframe and turns to find both John and Sherlock looking at her.

“Yeah, I’m fine, really. Just a bit of a shock, you know, in the moment. But uh, yeah I’ll be fine.” Iris kicks herself for adding the ‘will be’ after saying she was already fine. But these two had seen her knocked out and almost killed twice now, she figures they are at a point where they can be somewhat blunt with each other. “Probably have some bad nightmares for a bit, but honestly, I’m just glad it all worked out.”

“You, uh, volunteering, like you did, that... Uh...” John seems at a loss for words.

“Don’t mention it, really.” She pauses, unsure of what to say as well. She tries for a joke. “Plus, I figured if Sarah got picked she’d probably be less likely for a second date, and we wouldn’t want that to happen now, would we?” Sherlock smirks behind his tea, and John laughs, tension easing from the air. “Anyway, I’ve got my cardigan now, I’ll just be heading back to my flat. Let me know if you need any more help, you know, if some mass murder is looking for a new target just call me up, I’m around.” She jests and the three laugh. 

“Yeah, we’ll be sure to, thanks Iris.” John chuckles as Iris turns and heads back downstairs to her flat. While this isn’t quite what she imagined moving to London would be like, Iris is grateful to have made at least two friends, three if she counts Mrs. Hudson. She couldn’t seem to shake the idea that she wasn’t quite done with the two men living above her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this far, and I hope you're enjoying it!


	4. The Great Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!

Glad to have a few days of relative normality, Iris finds herself exploring more and more of Baker Street. Iris discovers a nice little café that makes a great cup of tea and breakfast sandwich, she locates the laundromat and post office, and a little home décor store where she’s managed to find some flowery curtains and cute lamps to brighten up her new flat. 

A disappointing phone call from her Private Investigator, Alfred, delays Iris’ search once again. It seems there are a number of jewelry stores that sold similar pendants to hers, and he wants to narrow down the search before giving her anything concrete. Iris tries to distract her thoughts and finds herself watching more and more mindless television with Mrs. Hudson. 

It started simply, her popping down to ask Mrs. Hudson a question about the water heater, seeing her in front of the television with something trashy but addictive, and suddenly Iris sits in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen almost every day that week.

The two watch _The Great British Bake Off,_ Mrs. Hudson commenting all the ways she would bake her desserts differently and win, _Strictly Come Dancing,_ Mrs. Hudson hinting at some dance background, but when Iris pushes further she brushes it off as nothing, and _Beauty Queen of Hearts,_ a makeover show with a woman named Connie Prince that Mrs. Hudson just adores, and Iris even admits that some of her beauty tips are quite helpful. 

Along with television watching, Iris spends a great deal of time before bed reading John’s blog. Even in the chaos that was being captured by Shan and nearly impaled by the crossbow, Iris does remember the woman mentioning a ‘fascinating blog’ of John’s. A few web searches later and it appears. The posts fascinate her, and give her more insight into how Sherlock’s mind works, and how John plays a vital role in their adventures. The way John writes about Sherlock and their cases is real, with only a bit of embellishing when needed. 

On the fifth almost full day of television watching with Mrs. Hudson, Iris decided to head out for a walk in the early evening. She ambles up and down Baker Street, stopping in for a tea to sip on in the crisp air. Iris arrives back at the front door at the same time as John, greeting him as he opens the door with his key. Iris follows him inside and out of the cold.

“How’ve you been?” John asks in the entryway. 

“Good, you know, just adjusting to my new day to day; I’ve been spending a lot of time with Mrs. Hudson watching television.”

John smiles warmly. “While I was unemployed I did a lot of that myself, I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

“Yeah, I have a job starting up in a couple of months, with the visa and everything I’m sort of in a holding pattern.” Iris hangs her coat on the hook. She’s about to say more when there is a loud gunshot upstairs. Both her and John tense. A second shot rings out immediately after, and in an instant the two bolt upstairs. The third shot fires by the time they reach the top of the stairs, this time hearing Sherlock shouting “Bored!” as he shoots from his leather chair.

“What the hell are you doing?!” John shouts and Sherlock looks up at the both of them.

“Bored.” He states simply. Like this is a totally normal reaction to a bit of boredom.

“What?” Iris asks, wondering why she’s surprised the gunfire is Sherlock’s, and curious even more as to why she actively chose to run _towards_ gunfire rather than away... Iris is about to unpack that thought further when Sherlock turns back to the wall, jumping out of his chair.

“Bored-” He fires another loud shot, Iris plugging her ears. “Bored-” _Another_ shot, this time behind his back, Iris noticing a yellow smiley face spray-painted on the wall. It’s the same paint from the Chinese cipher, and Iris wonders how he got a can and why he chose a smiley face of all things. “Bored.” Sherlock finally lowers his gun, John rushing up and grabbing it from his hand, disarming it. “I don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes. It’s a good job I’m not one of them.”

“So you take it out on the wall?” John asks, setting the disabled gun on the desk. Iris moves in slightly but stays leaning on the doorframe.

“The wall had it coming.” Sherlock huffs, flouncing in his dressing gown onto the couch.

“What about that Russian case?” John asks as he removes his coat.

“Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.” Sherlock closes his eyes.

“I’ve never been to Russia before, was it nice?” Iris asks, fascinated by how worldly these two seem with their adventuring.

“It was cold,” is all that Sherlock offers, and Iris rolls her eyes.

“Shame. Anything in? I’m starving.” John moves over to the fridge in the kitchen, Iris hearing him open it, close it, then open it again. Through the other open doorway Iris can see into the absolute mess of a kitchen and notices John hang his head and close the door. “A head. A severed head.”

That pulls Iris off from her spot in the doorway, moving over to the fridge next to John. Sure enough, sitting on a platter like a plate for a Halloween party sits a perfectly severed head. Iris wrinkles her nose at the slight smell as John exits the kitchen.

“Just tea for me, thanks.” Sherlock calls from the couch.

“There’s a head in the fridge!” John remarks angrily.

“Yes.” Again, like this is a perfectly normal thing.

“A bloody head!” John shouts.

“Had to put it somewhere. You don’t mind, do you? Got it from Bart’s morgue. I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” Sherlock offers simply.

“Cool!” Iris exclaims from the kitchen arch, causing both Sherlock and John to look at her. “What? I worked in a chem lab back home. We didn’t use human heads, we used rats- though they don’t produce as much saliva as we do so the numbers were a bit askew.” She shrugs and bounces between John’s look of slight horror and Sherlock’s nearly unreadable face of, is that admiration? Approval? She doesn’t quite know yet.

“I see you’ve written up the Taxi Driver case.” Sherlock motions over to John’s laptop on the desk. John moves over and sits down in the black leather chair.

“Um... yeah.” John answers distractedly, still put off from the head. Iris remembers the specific post, fascinated that much like Sherlock’s website was a reflection of him, John’s blog was perfectly fitting for the type of man he is. 

“‘A Study in Pink,’ right? I liked that one.” Iris responds, John looking up with a grin.

“Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?” John asks Sherlock, still laid out on the couch.

“Er... no.”

John drops his mouth open. “Why not? I thought you’d be... flattered.”

“Flattered? ‘Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’” Sherlock quotes directly from memory. Iris did cringe a bit at that line, but overall felt the post was a great illustration of Sherlock and the work they now do.

“Hang on, I didn’t mean-” John tries to explain.

“What, you meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way? Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister. Or who’s sleeping with who-” 

“Or that the earth goes 'round the sun?” John retorts. Iris’ eyes widen.

“Oh that _again._ It’s not important.” Sherlock groans.

“You don’t know that the earth goes around the sun? How? Also, isn’t your Prime Minister David Cameron?” Iris recalls news articles she read when she first booked her plane ticket out here, trying to familiarize herself with the new country she was moving to.

John motions to Iris with his hand, “See? Even a bloody American knows who the Prime Minister is, and she hasn’t even been in the country two full weeks yet!”

“How is it not important, Sherlock? It’s information.” Iris wonders.

“It’s primary school stuff! _How_ can you not know that?” John exclaims before Sherlock can answer. Sherlock puts the heels of his palms up to his eyes, rubbing and decidedly not looking at either of them.

“If I ever did, I’ve deleted it.”

“Deleted it?” John asks, Iris jealous of the idea of being able to delete memories. Sherlock sits up quickly, pointing a finger to his temple.

“Listen. _This_ is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. That makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“So you can experience something, see it, hear it, whatever, and then just chose to delete it from your memory, and it’s gone for good?” Iris stands there dumbstruck at the idea.

“Like hitting a key on a computer.” Sherlock says proudly.

“What I wouldn’t kill for that kind of ability.” Iris says despondently. 

“What do you mean?” John asks, both his and Sherlock’s eyes on her.

“If I could go through my brain and delete memories or things I didn’t want floating in my head, do you know how amazing that would be? I...” Iris decides to go out on a limb and share with John and Sherlock, something she doesn’t do very often. “I have hyperthymesia.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that...” John tries to think. Sherlock eyes her carefully.

“Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. Basically, from the time I was about 7 or 8, I can remember every single day or event that has ever happened to me.” 

“There’s almost no scientific research on that, there’s no way you were actually diagnosed...” Sherlock says skeptically, John still a beat behind, confused. Iris rolls her eyes.

“Thank you for that kind observation, if you say so then I guess it’s not true.” Iris snaps back. Sherlock not believing her upsets Iris, and she explains further with a bite of anger in her tone. “There are a handful of documented, diagnosed cases; I’ve been seen and poked at by over twenty doctors so far, one of them consistently studying me over the past three years, and officially diagnosed four years ago when I was 22 years old, in 2006.”

“So, like, if I asked what you were doing in August of 2001, you would-” John starts and Iris steadies herself for the ‘fun’ testing that always comes whenever she shares this bit of info with new people.

“Do you have a specific date in mind?” 

“17th of August.” John guesses. Iris smiles as the memories flash into focus. 

_Hot summer air, floral dress and flip flops, the boardwalk and pier, ice cream in hand. Sea breeze and sand in her toes, Sam wearing her floppy hat and pink sunglasses._

“A Friday, summer before my senior year of high school. My foster brother Sam and I took the bus down to a pier in New Jersey where we walked up and down the boardwalk. We had those chocolate dipped soft serve cones and Sam stole my floppy hat and pink sunglasses, wearing them more than I did that day.”

“How’d you know what day of the week that was?” John asks, surprised at the detail.

“How do you remember what you had for breakfast this morning? You think about it and the detail comes to the forefront, right? That’s the same thing, though it goes back a lot farther than this morning.” Iris shrugs. From the little that she knows Sherlock, Iris thought he’d be intrigued by the concept of her memory syndrome. She’s disappointed he seems more skeptical than interested. 

“Do you really not believe me Sherlock?” Iris asks, ready to prove herself again. “Come on, ask me anything, you can fact check the days of the week if you’re not sure.”

Sherlock lays back down on the couch with a flounce of his dressing gown. “Boring, simple mathematics can determine any given day of the week regardless of the year. And any of those stories could be real or fake but there’s no way to fully figure it out.”

“Other than trusting me when I say it happened and that my HSAM is real?” 

“Oh, hell, what does that matter? None of it matters, so you can remember some dates and events from your past, so we go around the sun. If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn’t make any difference. All that matters is the work. Without it, my brain rots. Put that in your blog.” Sherlock huffs from the newly placed cushion over his head.

“Wow. I knew you were a bit detached from the real world but never thought of you as this indifferent.” Iris bites out curtly.

“I think it’s bloody brilliant.” John adds, trying to lighten the mood. “I was looking at writing up the Van Coon and Lukis case, would you mind if I wrote about you as well? I want to give readers the full picture.” Iris takes a deep breath, choosing to move past Sherlock’s unkind disbelief. 

“Um, yeah, sure, fine by me.” Iris attempts a small smile. 

“Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions of the world.” Sherlock calls out from under the cushion muffling his voice. The anger in John’s face startles Iris, and soon he is out of his chair, coat in hand, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks as he hears him leaving. 

“Out! I need some air.” John stalks down the stairs and pointedly slams the front door behind him. Sherlock has removed the pillow from his face and merely lays there with his fingers steepled under his chin. 

“That wasn’t very nice. But then again, you don’t do ‘very nice,’ do you?” Iris says mockingly. Sherlock remains unmoving, and Mrs. Hudson’s entrance to the flat distracts Iris’ thoughts.

“Ooo-hoo! You two had a little domestic?” Mrs. Hudson asks playfully as she noticed John’s loud exit. She carries some shopping bags and Iris moves to help her place them on the floor by Sherlock’s kitchen table. She hears Sherlock stand up, and Iris looks over just in time to see him stand up and over the coffee table, rather than walk around it. She rolls her eyes as he moves to the window, staring moodily out of it. 

“Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn’t it hateful?” Sherlock laments boringly.

“Oh yeah, real hateful, peace and quiet?” Iris mocks quietly under her breath. 

“I’m sure something’ll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder! That’ll cheer you up.” Mrs. Hudson says from the doorway, Iris behind her, about to follow her downstairs.

“Can’t come too soon.” Sherlock laments. Iris hopes this foul mood is the main cause of Sherlock’s disinterest in her and his rudeness to John, and while she doesn’t hope for a murder she does hope for some kind of case to come pull him out of this strange funk. Iris is about to turn to go downstairs when Mrs. Hudson notices the newly added holes in her building.

“Oi! What have you done to my bloody wall?! I’m putting this on your rent, young man!” Mrs. Hudson huffs off down the stairs. Iris stays in the doorway, watching Sherlock eye his smiley face, grinning wildly like it, then letting his face fall. Iris starts to say something when suddenly: 

KABOOM! A huge explosion across the street blows through both large windows in the flat, sending glass, dust, and debris everywhere. Sherlock flies forward, thrown to the ground, Iris blasting backward and landing face up on the stairwell behind her. Thankful to not have actually fallen down the stairs, Iris starts coughing. She manages to sit up and pull herself up the couple of stairs back to the landing she originally stood on. Dust still settles in the air, Iris barely able to make out the room in front of her, the lights having been knocked out too. Sherlock starts coughing as well, and Iris crouches down to the floor to feel around until she makes contact with his arm.

“Sherlock? You okay?” She asks in between coughing. Sherlock manages to sit himself up, Iris crouched in front of him, concern on her face.

“Yes, I’m fine, are you okay?” The dust mostly settles, and the streetlights from outside help illuminate the dark room.

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m going to go check on Mrs. Hudson.” Iris stands, feeling her way back to the door. Sherlock rises behind her and moves to follow. 

“I’ll come too, see if we can get the lights back on.” They slowly climb down the dark staircase, running into Mrs. Hudson at the bottom.

“Mrs. Hudson? Are you hurt?” Iris asks, reaching out and finding her shoulder, following that up with her hand Iris touches Mrs. Hudson’s face, feeling her shake her head.

“I’m alright dear, really, how about you and Sherlock?”

“Other than the blow back I think we’re both okay, Sherlock’s going to check out the breaker box and see if we can get some light back. I have a flashlight in my flat, do you have any in yours?” 

The two women move to find flashlights and a few candles, Sherlock opening the front door to look at the explosion from across the street. An entire building that was once there now sits as an empty shell. Iris appears behind him, holding out a flashlight while looking out to the crowd of people forming. Flashing lights appear off in the distance, and soon the whole street is sectioned off. Sherlock moves to find the breaker box, and somehow they are able to bring back the electricity, though a few bulbs in the hallway have shattered. 

Mrs. Hudson makes some tea, and Iris thinks Sherlock will join them, as her adrenaline has fully woken her up, even given the late hour. Sherlock declines the offer for tea, merely stating that he’s going to bed, and disappears upstairs. Iris rolls her eyes and decides to just let him be. 

She and Mrs. Hudson stay up a bit later, answering the door to police officers when they knock asking if everyone in the building is alright. It seems there was a large gas leak in the building and that was what caused the explosion. The structure of 221B seemed solid and fine, other than the windows being blown out. The officer explained that someone from the city would be around the next day to access damages. Iris thanks the man and relays the info to Mrs. Hudson, before heading off to bed.

~.~ 

The next morning Iris finds herself standing in the open front door of 221B, mug of tea in hand, watching the workers sifting through and removing debris. Fully dressed except for her slippers, Iris pulls her green cardigan tighter around her torso, contemplating grabbing a scarf. The warm tea helps, and soon she sees John making his way through the crowd, concern painted all over him. Seeing Iris in the doorway seems to help quell some of his worry, though seeing the windows blown out upstairs doesn’t make it any better.

“Iris, what the hell happened? Is everyone alright?”

Iris swallows her mouthful of tea, nodding quickly. “Yes, John, everyone is fine. Sherlock’s fine, Mrs. Hudson’s fine, really. Sherlock and I got blown back a bit, I noticed a few cuts and scrapes but other than the windows upstairs all is good.” She moves out of the way so John can enter. “Gas leak it seems, building manager’s been by, and someone from the city to note all the damage." John moves towards the stairs. "Oh, and Mycroft’s upstairs.” She calls out, John pausing to look back at Iris, rolling his eyes. 

“Of course he is. Thanks, Iris. I’m glad everyone’s okay, I just saw it on the news... I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Iris smiles and nods up to John, turning back and resuming her watch of all the people on her street. A few passersby ask her what happened, not wanting to disturb the officers handling the scene. Iris ends up chatting with a few neighbors, then resumes her silent watch with her tea. 

Upstairs she hears someone start to descend, hoping it’s John, but figuring it’s probably Mycroft. Sure enough, the tall slender man, who locked her in a cab just to talk to him, appears behind her. Iris prides herself in not jumping at his voice, trying to prove this man doesn’t completely scare her. She looks up at him over her shoulder, similar height to Sherlock, though the lines in his face age him significantly, belying a great deal of stress and worry. 

“Ms. Moretti.” Mycroft says coolly, that same umbrella still in his hand.

“Mr. Holmes.” Iris follows in his formality.

“I’m quite glad everyone is alright, nasty business those gas leaks.” They both look out at the rubble that once was the building across the way.

“Back in New York, I saw my share of gas leaks and fires, it’s definitely not something to mess with.” Iris finishes her tea, the two standing awkwardly.

“Well, do have a good day Ms. Moretti.” Mycroft starts to leave.

“You know, you can call me Iris, if you’d like. I mean I do live with your brother, I was knocked out and kidnapped by people trying to get Sherlock, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. No need for such formality.” She teases, trying to lighten the mood. “And while I’m still pissed at you for locking me in that cab, it helps to know that you weren’t actually trying to kill me.”

“Ah yes, well apologies for the initial scare, Iris.” Mycroft nods his head in a farewell, eyes falling on the pendant Iris absentmindedly plays with at her neck. She notices his quizzical stare, following his eyes to the necklace in her fingers.

“Oh, this? It’s a necklace my birth parents gave me. Or at least I think it is, it’s the only thing I’ve had since I can remember.”

Mycroft makes a facial expression that seems to be some form of acknowledgment of her statement. Iris chooses to continue, unable to read whatever his face is saying.

“It’s the reason I’m in London, actually. I’m hoping to find the place they bought it from, maybe it’ll lead me to where they are or even who they are.” She shrugs and lets go of the necklace. “Who knows, it may be a total dead end, but my PI seems to think it might be something.” 

Mycroft’s face moves from unreadable, to understanding? This confuses Iris, but Mycroft simply smiles calmly.

“If your PI ever needs a hand, do send him my way. I may have a few connections that could be useful. Good day, Iris.” Mycroft moves out the door before Iris can stop him.

“Wow, thank you Mycroft, I appreciate it!” She calls out after him. He merely waves his umbrella in acknowledgment and moves past the barricades towards a waiting black town car. 

Utterly confused by the interaction, but not surprised because he is a Holmes after all, and if the short time she’s spent with Sherlock explains anything about their family, she’s given up trying to figure them out completely. Tea finished and a brisk wind picking up, Iris closes the front door and returns to her flat. 

A couple of hours later, Iris goes out to check the mail, opening the front door to see the continued clean-up effort, though most of the crowd dissipated. Iris flips through a few random ads and almost closes the door to her flat behind her when someone rushes up and knocks her unconscious, Iris crumpling to the floor.

Iris wakes up to Mrs. Hudson’s concerned face looking down at her. Mail strewn next to her, Iris manages to sit up, reaching for the back of her head. Her flat door hangs open, and Iris looks around the entryway.

“What happened?” Iris asks confusedly. Mrs. Hudson helps her to her feet.

“I don’t know dear, I’d just come back from getting the shopping and found you here in front of your door, are you alright?”

Iris reaches up to the back of her head, wondering how many times she is going to be knocked out before she should consider getting checked for a serious concussion. Her fingers come back with a bit of blood, and Iris sighs heavily.

Mrs. Hudson starts slightly at the blood, helping Iris down the steps into her flat. She leads Iris over to the couch, depositing her into it before going over and grabbing a towel and dampening it under the sink. She returns and Iris leans her head forward, parting her hair somewhat, so that Mrs. Hudson can take a look. The front door opens and Iris hears multiple sets of footsteps, figuring it’s the boys upstairs or clients or something. She doesn’t expect them to show up at her door, peering in at her. 

“Iris, everything alright?” John’s voice calls out, Iris unable to see because of her hair hanging in her face. She shifts slightly and moves her hair aside so she can see.

“We’ve really got to tell people to stop knocking me out if they want to get to you boys. Or at least not draw blood if they do so.” Iris attempts to tease, but the pain really aches. 

Mrs. Hudson tuts at that, and John moves quickly down to take the towel from her, checking Iris over himself. Through her parted hair Iris sees Sherlock and Detective Inspector Lestrade enter, glad to see the nicer DI having returned from whatever holiday he was on. 

“What is it this time Sherlock? Mass murder? Another smuggling ring?” Iris plays before wincing at John’s poking. He apologizes and moves her hair over to see the other side. 

“A bomber it seems.” Sherlock says, looking around the flat, taking in all the details. 

“Oh just great, so I take it that wasn’t a gas leak across the way?” Iris figures. John fixes Iris’ hair back, helping her sit up fully, moving around to look her in the face.

“That would be correct.” John says while checking her pupils. Satisfied that she’s okay, John turns to Sherlock. “So why did that photo lead us here? The place doesn’t even look the same, Iris has added curtains and such.”

“You have a photo of my apartment?” Iris asks, quite concerned that someone might have been in her flat while she was away. Her question remains unanswered as Sherlock zeros in on why they’ve been sent to this flat in particular.

A pair of shoes sit on the far side of the living room. White sneakers, running shoes or some kind of athletic wear Iris can’t make out from her place on the couch. Those are definitely not her shoes, and they were most definitely not there when she left to get the mail. The room falls quiet. Sherlock starts to make his way to the shoes.

“He’s a bomber, remember.” John warns. Sherlock pauses, looking around the flat before continuing. Sherlock crouches down, almost face first at the shoes, when suddenly a phone starts to ring. Sherlock stands, pulling a bright pink phone from his pocket.

“That’s the pink phone from the ‘Study in Pink’ case, isn’t it?” Iris asks. John nods.

“Or at least it’s been made to look like it.” He adds.

Sherlock answers the phone with a soft, “Hello,” before putting it on speaker. Breathing comes over the line, ragged and loud. A woman’s voice starts to speak, shaky and unsure of what she’s saying. 

“Hello... sexy.”

“Who’s this?” Sherlock presses. The woman sobs before continuing. 

“I’ve... sent you... a little puzzle, just to say hi.” 

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock asks, other than their two voices you could hear a pin drop in the silent tension of the room. 

“I’m not crying... I’m typing. And this... stupid bitch... is reading it out.” Looks are exchanged across the room, except for Sherlock, who merely mutters:

“The curtain rises...”

“What?” John asks, just as confused as Iris next to him.

“Nothing.” Sherlock brushes it off. John presses on.

“No. What do you mean?”

“Just that I’ve been expecting something like this.”

Could it somehow be connected to the cabbie and the Chinese smuggling ring? The whole ‘Moriarty’ business? Iris rolls the idea around in her recently shaken head, still concerned that someone knocked her unconscious just to leave a pair of shoes in her flat. The woman’s voice pulls her back.

“Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock. Or I’m going to be so naughty.” The woman sobs more, her fear and distress ringing clearly through the phone. Lestrade and John share a look of horror, but Sherlock almost seems, intrigued? Excited? Iris hopes she’s misreading that, but she has no clue at this point. 

“I’ve got to get these to Bart’s, need to examine them more closely.” Sherlock reaches down and plucks the trainers off the ground. John turns back to Iris.

“You okay? It doesn’t seem too bad, more of a scrape than actual cut back there, should be fine.” John smiles as Iris nods, glad to see she’s alright. He is about to follow Sherlock out when he stops and turns back to Iris. “Fancy joining us? Who knows, may be interesting.”

“Sure! I’d like to help if I can, maybe figure out why they had to knock me out just to drop off some shoes.” John smiles and Iris follows him out.

And with that the group is on their way to Bart’s. While Iris thought the first time she went to Bart’s would be on her first day of work in a couple of months, it seems fitting that the reason now involves something to do with John and Sherlock.

Iris follows them down a long hallway, past dozens of labs, her little chemistry heart aflutter with excitement. Then she remembers why they’re here, and her head throbs slightly. Sherlock opens the door to a large lab, lots of equipment and cabinets around a long table full of microscopes and computers. They hang their coats on a nearby coat rack, Lestrade excusing himself to answer a phone call, and Iris begins to slowly explore the place. Sherlock plants himself in front of a microscope and starts examining the shoes. John leans against a nearby counter, watching Sherlock.

“Who do you suppose it was? The woman on the phone- the crying woman?” John asks, pulling Iris back from her exploration of a cabinet of beakers labeled with different diseases.

“Oh, she doesn’t matter. Just a hostage. There’s no lead there.” Sherlock says shortly, not shifting his focus from his microscope.

“For God’s sake, I wasn’t thinking about leads.” John retorts.

“Then you’re not going to be much use to her.” Sherlock adds. Iris struggles to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“Are they trying to trace it? Trace the call?” Iris asks, thinking that maybe they could get somewhere off the phone. Sherlock’s phone beeps from somewhere in his jacket.

“The bomber’s too clever for that. Pass me my phone.” Sherlock asks John.

“Where is it?” John starts to move towards the coat rack, thinking it’s there.

“Jacket.” Sherlock says, changing slides on his microscope. Iris snorts and leans forward on the table across from Sherlock, watching John sigh as he reaches into Sherlock’s jacket. He checks the phone.

“Text, from your brother.” John describes, waiting for Sherlock to tell him to read it before opening.

“Delete it.”

“ _Delete_ it?” John thinks this is a joke.

“Those missile plans will be out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.”

“Missile plans? Now there’re missile plans on the loose somewhere?” Iris asks. What else have these two gotten themselves into?

“Mycroft asked Sherlock to help him locate a flash drive with some missing blueprints. Sherlock thinks he’s too busy so he’s refusing to help.”

“Ah, got it. Sounds about right.” Iris smirks, reaching for a small set of flasks lined in a row. She peers into each one, checking out the colors and consistencies. There’s a large book on different types of mold that catches Iris’ attention, she pulls it closer and begins to flip through it.

“Mycroft thinks there is something we can do. He’s texted you eight times. Must be important.” John adds, scrolling through more texts on Sherlock’s phone.

“Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment?” Sherlock thinks aloud. Iris wishes she was surprised but by now she’s not.

“His what?” John asks.

“Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains- end of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting?”

“Yeah, try and remember there’s a woman who might die!” John protests.

“What for? This hospital is full of dying people, Doctor. Go and cry at their bedsides, see what good it does them.” Iris is amazed that Sherlock hasn’t looked up from his microscope once to have this conversation with John, he merely puts in another slide and smiles in satisfaction.

The door to the lab opens, and a young woman in her late twenties enters, red hair and a nice sweater under her white lab coat. Iris stands up from her place at the counter, and smiles.

“Any luck?” She asks, looking between John and Sherlock.

“Oh yes.” Sherlock mutters. The woman’s eyes fall on Iris, and she offers a small wave.

“Hi, I’m Iris Moretti.”

“Molly Hooper, how do you know-” Molly’s question is interrupted by the door opening again, a slender man a bit older than Sherlock enters. The man doesn’t wear a lab coat, only a fitted tee shirt and pants, though there’s a bright neon green strip of fabric Iris assumes is his underwear sticking up out of the band of his jeans. He seems to realize he walked in at a less than opportune moment.

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know-”

“Jim! Hi! Come in, come in. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.” Molly begins her introduction, turning to John. “And- Oh... err... sorry.”

“John Watson. Hi.” 

“Hi.” The man nods his head, looking around. His eyes fall on Iris. “And you are...?”

“Iris Moretti, nice to meet you.” Iris smiles again, trying not to be put off by the strange nature of this man across from her. Jim turns to watch Sherlock at his microscope.

“So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Molly’s told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?” Jim asks as he moves closer. Sherlock doesn’t even acknowledge him.

“Jim works in IT upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance!” Molly explains a bit too over excitedly. Sherlock finally looks up and glances ever so briefly at Jim.

“Gay.” Sherlock quietly utters.

“...sorry, what?” Molly asks quickly.

“Nothing. Um. Hey.” Sherlock tries to fix it but suddenly Jim knocks over a small dish next to Sherlock, it clatters to the floor loudly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Jim hurries to right the bowl and steps back slightly. “Well, I’d better be off. See you at the Fox? Sixish?” He says to Molly, passing her on the way towards the door.

“Yeah.” Molly smiles, though her posture holds a lot of tension.

“Bye, then. Nice to meet you.” Jim says pointedly at Sherlock. Sherlock remains unmoving, causing John to step forward and add, “Yeah, you too,” before Jim slips back out the door. Once the door shuts, Molly turns on Sherlock adamantly.

“What do you mean, gay? We’re together.” Molly can’t seem to shake Sherlock’s initial deduction of the man.

“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.” Sherlock’s bluntness astounds Iris, reaching new levels somehow.

“Two and a half!” Molly retorts, mortified.

“Sherlock!” John and Iris both scold him.

“He’s not gay! Why do you have to spoil- he’s not!” Molly seems beside herself.

“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock scoffs.

“What? Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair.” John jumps to Molly’s defense, utterly annoyed at Sherlock.

“You wash your hair. There’s a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, and those tired, clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”

“His underwear?” Iris and Molly both ask. Sherlock reaches for the small dish as he speaks, finally looking up from his microscope. 

“Visible above his waist. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just dropped his phone number under this dish here and I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” Sherlock looks smug, almost prideful in what he’s just done. Molly simply looks like she’s been caught with her pants down in front of the whole school, she’s that mortified. Without another word, she flees the lab. 

“Charming, well done.” John sighs dejectedly. Iris leans forward again on the counter in front of her, hanging her head with a shake. 

“Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?” Sherlock honestly doesn’t see anything wrong.

“Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, that was not kind.” Iris says with her head still hanging. She looks up to his confused face glancing between her and John. He decides to change the subject. Sherlock grabs one of the shoes and slides it over to John, the second over to Iris.

“Go on, then.” Sherlock sits back in his chair. “You know what I do. Off you go.” 

John chuckles and looks at his watch. “Um, no.” Iris merely picks up the shoe, unsure of what Sherlock wants with her opinion.

“Go on, give it a go.” Sherlock presses, John crosses his arms.

“I’m not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and-”

“An outside eye, a second opinion. It’s very useful to me.” Sherlock eyes Iris, encouraging her with his glance to look closer at the shoe.

“Yeah, right.” John scoffs.

“Really!” Sherlock merely stares John down, unwavering in his request. It seems to work because John mutters a short “fine” as he picks up the shoe. Iris turns the shoe over in her hands, looking at the sole, watching what John does before saying anything.

“Ok, they’re just a pair of shoes... Trainers.” John notices, Iris remembering the discrepancies of word choice between the UK and the US. Sherlock smiles, quietly pressing forward with his eyes. “They’re in good nick. I’d say they were pretty new, except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while... Uh, very ‘80s. Probably one of those retro designs.”

“You’re on sparkling form. What else? Feel free to jump in as well Iris.” Sherlock grins.

“They’re quite big. A man’s.” John continues. Something on the inside catches Iris’ eye.

“But there’re traces of a name inside in felt-tip.” Iris adds, opening the shoe more and showing it across the table. “Adults don’t write their names inside their shoes, so these belong to a kid, don’t they?” Iris pulls at the tongue of the shoe more, trying to make out the old felt tip ink.

“Excellent.” Sherlock praises her. “What else.”

John hits a wall, unable to come up with anything else, Iris too. “That’s it.” He decides.

“That’s it?” Sherlock asks. 

“How did I do?” John probes for approval quite skeptically, wondering how he matched up to Sherlock.

“Well, John. Really well, both you and Iris. I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, you know.” Iris rolls her eyes, handing the shoe back into Sherlock’s outstretched hand. “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they’ve got discolored and changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there’re traces of flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them. So he suffered from eczema. The trainers are well-worn but much more so on the inner side. Which means the owner had weak arches.” Sherlock proceeds to sniff the shoe. “British made. And twenty years old.”

“Twenty years?” John is skeptical that the shoes aren’t just remakes of a retro style. Sherlock reaches for his phone. 

“Not retro. They’re original.” He flashes the photo at both John and Iris. “Limited edition. Two blue stripes. 1989.”

The year flashes into Iris’ memory, but being only 5 leaves her with a lack of fully formed memories. The plane from before, with the Carebear falling out of her hands and a nice lady picking it up returns, but when she tries to press further, to pull more memories, her brain fails her and her hand flies to her forehead with a sharp pain. John and Sherlock look up.

“You okay?” John asks. Iris nods.

“Uh, yeah, my memory’s a bit foggy any time before 7 or 8, so when you said the date I started to remember but it’s like there’s nothing there so it just jolts a bit.” She rubs her forehead. “It’s fine, carry on.” John still looks concerned, Sherlock curious. He merely presses on.

“Someone’s kept the shoes this way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it’s from Sussex but with London mud overlaying it.”

“How do you know?” Iris asks, the pain having thankfully subsided. She leans across the table as Sherlock turns the computer screen out for them all to see.

“Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river too. So the child who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to them?” John asks, looking down at the shoes on the counter.

“Something bad. He loved these shoes, remember? Wouldn’t leave them filthy. Wouldn’t let them go unless he had no choice. So kid with big feet gets- oh!” Sherlock exclaims.

“What?” John urges him to answer.

“Carl Powers.” Sherlock contemplates.

“Sorry, who?” John and Iris glance at each other.

“Carl Powers! John...” Sherlock trails off.

“What is it?” Iris wonders why Sherlock suddenly fell so silent.

“It’s where I began.” Sherlock jumps up from his seat, grabbing his coat on the way out. John and Iris jog to catch up, following him out of Bart’s and into a cab. Sherlock pulls out his phone, John next to him and Iris in the seat across from John.

“1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn’t remember it. Why should you?”

“But you remember.” Iris follows, wondering how old Sherlock must have been at the time. He nods in agreement.

“Something fishy about it?” John wonders.

“Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.” Sherlock explains.

“You started young, didn’t you?” John mutters.

“How old were you Sherlock?” Iris tries to imagine Sherlock as a young child running around solving cases. 

“Six, almost seven.” Sherlock takes pride in admitting that fact, enjoying the look of shock on Iris’ face. “The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong somewhere. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

“What?” John asks. Sherlock takes a moment before answering, hoping Iris or John would figure it out. When they don’t he rolls his eyes. 

“His shoes.” Sherlock explains. 

“What about them?” John inquires, Iris starting to wonder if the shoes they’ve been examining are actually the same ones that belonged to Carl.

“They weren’t there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested but nobody seemed to think it was important.” Sherlock complains. Iris chuckles at the thought.

“I’d love to see you as a child worrying the police like that.” Iris grins, her and John sharing a laugh. Sherlock merely glares.

“He’d left all the rest of his clothes in the locker. But there was no sign of his shoes. Until now.” Sherlock pulls the shoes back into his lap, looking them over. Iris looks at her watch.

“Only six hours left.” Iris reminds Sherlock, thinking back to the poor woman on the phone.

Sherlock looks out the window. “I am aware of the time, thank you.” Iris looks over at John, who merely shrugs. 

Back at Baker Street, Iris joins the two upstairs only to be swiftly ejected from the kitchen with John. The two sit in the living room, John in the plush chair across from Iris in the black leather one. Time passes, John’s leg bounces nervously, and Iris pulled out her fidget cube about an hour ago. John finally has had enough sitting around and goes to open one of the sliding doors to the kitchen. Sherlock sits at the table, papers everywhere and his laptop open.

“Can I help? I want to help. There’s only five hours left.” John’s phone beeps in his pants pocket. He checks it and sighs. “It’s your brother. He’s texting me now. How does he know my number?” John turns back to Iris who simply shrugs.

“You’ve got me, he seemed to know a lot about me before I met him, so who knows. Doesn’t he work for the government?”

“Must be a root canal.” Sherlock mutters to himself.

“Look, he did say ‘National Importance,’” John fully enters the kitchen, Iris leaning over the armrest to peer in at them. Sherlock snorts.

“How quaint!” Sherlock changes another slide in his microscope on the kitchen table.

“What is?” 

“You are. Queen and Country.” Sherlock mocks John.

“You can’t just ignore it.” John persists.

“I’m not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now.” 

John looks back, Iris raising her eyebrows. “Right, good!” He clears his throat. “Who’s that?” With only a look, John realizes Sherlock means to send him to go deal with Mycroft. John turns to Iris. “Care to join?” Iris crinkles her nose.

“Umm, I think I’ll pass, I still don’t quite understand him, and not quite over the whole cab thing. I’d rather stay here. Plus you know, Queen and Country and all, not really my country is it? Don’t want to get in the way.” Iris teases. John huffs out a laugh and moves to get his coat. He leaves and the flat falls back into silence. 

Sherlock pulls out his laptop, switching slides and samples in his microscope. An hour or two pass and Mrs. Hudson climbs up the stairs carrying a tray of snacks, greeting Iris warmly. Sherlock shouts “Poison!” from the kitchen, startling them both. Iris grabs a handful of chips and pops them in her mouth.

“What are you going on about?” Mrs. Hudson asks, moving closer to Sherlock. John climbs back up the stairs, just as Sherlock slams both hands on the table shouting “Clostridium botulinum!” sending Mrs. Hudson down the stairs with a wail. John merely stands in the doorway, Iris now leaning against the back of John’s chair looking in at the kitchen. “It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet.” Sherlock furthers. John still does not respond, or Iris either. Frustrated, Sherlock adds, “Carl Powers.”

“Oh, wait. Are you saying he was murdered?” John removes his coat.

“Remember the shoelaces?” Sherlock rises from his chair and the three crowd around the set of shoelaces hanging over a thin string above the kitchen sink along with the rest of the two shoes taken apart. “The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles and he drowns.” Sherlock moves to the other side of the kitchen table, leaning down to his laptop.

“But how come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?” Iris asks, remembering the report open on the table at the lab.

“It’s virtually undetectable. And nobody would’ve been looking for it. There are still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he’d put the cream on his feet. That’s why they had to go.” Sherlock begins to type, Iris moving to read as he writes: _“FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker St.”_ With a flourish, Sherlock hits the enter key. 

“So how do we let the bomber know?” John asks, thinking of the woman on the phone.

“Get his attention. Stop the clock.” Sherlock adds.

“You think he’s checking your website?” Iris adds, wondering why he chose this platform of all places to post. 

“The killer kept the shoes all these years.” John thinks aloud. Sherlock nods. “Meaning...”

“He’s the bomber!” Iris concludes. Sherlock and John share a look between the three of them, just as the pink phone on the counter rings. Sherlock quickly moves to answer it, putting it on speaker again. The ragged breathing and woman’s voice come through again. 

“Well done, you. Come and get me.”

“Where are you? Tell us where you are.” Sherlock presses for her information while John dials Lestrade. A team is sent out to retrieve the woman, and also the bomb that subsequently was attached to her. Lestrade calls back a couple of hours later to let them know all is settled, asking for Sherlock and John to come in the next morning. Iris, relieved that the woman is finally safe, leaves the boys to head to bed. 

The next morning both John and Sherlock are out early, Iris choosing to try calling her PI to see if he has any new updates. Working with the two men is intriguing and exhilarating, but Iris refuses to let them derail her initial intent for coming to London. Alfred has nothing new to report, just a couple of places on his list been checked off as not actually a viable trace. While the list has narrowed a bit, Alfred still has her in a holding pattern. Iris, remembering Mycroft’s strange offer, retrieves the nameless business card he gave her, telling Alfred maybe he can help.

The morning passes quietly, Iris spending most of it filling out more paperwork for her visa, video chatting with her old boss from the lab in New York, and making a late breakfast. She’s journaling on the couch when Iris hears the two return, catching them in the hallway.

“How’d it go? The woman’s safe now, right?” Iris asks. John nods, taking off his coat.

“Yeah, she’s all good, though there’s been another.” John starts up the stairs.

“What? How? What does he want this time?” Iris worries about another innocent victim swept up in whatever is happening. John shakes his head at the top of the stairs, turning back to Iris as she follows them.

“Well it seems we’ve solved it, we’re going up now to let the bomber know.” 

They enter the flat, Sherlock’s coat still on, and he walks right up to his laptop. His website still open on the screen, he types “Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia,” John catching Iris up to speed. A car had been found with Ian Monkford’s blood, a man who’s been missing and it looks like the rental company he got the car from also deals in helping people commit insurance fraud. Ian faked his death so his wife could get the insurance money and he could escape off to tropical Columbia to enjoy a life without debt or anyone coming after him. Iris wonders what sort of life he had that was bad enough to warrant faking his own death.

Sherlock posts and the pink phone rings again. Sherlock answers it, and a young man’s voice comes out quivering and scared. “He says... You can come and fetch me.” John exhales, Sherlock relaxing somewhat. Iris, having just been looped into all of this, rides the fear for the poor hostage along with the relief that he’s going to be okay. The man’s location found, and his well-being secured, Sherlock grins as he hangs up the phone.

“Now what?” John asks, about to sit down in his chair, Iris realizing John prefers the plush chair and Sherlock the leather one.

“Now, we wait.” Sherlock jumps up, heading for the door. 

“I guess that doesn’t mean waiting here,” John laughs, standing up and putting his coat back on. “Sherlock, how about we wait somewhere with some food?” John calls after him.

“Fine with me, let’s go.” Sherlock’s out of sight and Iris follows John down the stairs.

“Fancy a bite Iris? I don’t know how long we’ll be waiting, but you’re much better company than he is.” John smiles warmly and Iris nods, going for her coat by the door.

“I’m always up for a bite, lead the way.”

The three find themselves at a small café, John scarfing down some eggs and sausage, Sherlock sitting across from John not even with a cup of coffee in front of him. Iris orders some coffee and a cup of fruit, sitting on John’s left. 

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asks, noticing the severity of how John swallows his food down.

“Mm, yes, we’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started.” He takes another bite. “Has it occurred to you-”

“Probably.” Sherlock interrupts. 

“No, has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into Iris’ flat, the dead kid’s shoes, it’s all meant for you.”

Sherlock ponders that. “Yes, I know.” 

“Is it him, then? Moriarty?” John mentions the name from the ‘Study in Pink’ case, Iris’ eyes going wide.

“You mean the one who helped that cabbie kill all those people?” Iris asks. John acknowledges her connection with a nod, turning back to Sherlock for his response.

“Perhaps.” And then his phone dings. Sherlock opens the message, three long beeps playing out, along with a photo. Iris recognizes the lady in the picture. “That could be anybody.” Sherlock laments. John picks up the phone, Iris looking over his shoulder. 

“Oh, could be, yeah-”

“That’s Connie Prince, isn’t it?” Iris exclaims excitedly, so glad to actually be helpful. John gets up and goes to the counter asking for the television remote, Iris looking up and noticing the small tv playing in the background. He changes it to Connie Prince’s show, Iris immediately recognizing it from all the afternoons she’s spent with Mrs. Hudson. 

“Who?” Sherlock still looks lost, and Iris revels in the idea that for once she knows something Sherlock doesn’t.

“Mrs. Hudson loves to watch a bunch of silly reality tv shows, Connie Prince hosts one of them.” They turn at the table to look up at Connie Prince on the television, talking about some lady and her recent makeover. The pink phone rings, Sherlock answering it. Because there are others around in the café, Sherlock keeps the phone at his ear, Iris watching his face. John returns to the table, joining Iris. 

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asks after a moment. Dissatisfied with the answer, or it being the end of the call, Sherlock hangs up the phone, shaking his head slightly. “Twelve hours. Must be a blind woman from the delayed dialogue.” John hangs his head. Iris reaches for her wallet and goes up to the lady at the register to pay for their food while everyone gets their coats on. While waiting for her change, the program on television shifts to a news anchor discussing the recent tragic death of Connie Prince, Iris looking over to John and Sherlock who also heard the same thing. They head out the door and over to Bart’s morgue.

“Now, you’re sure you’re alright coming into the morgue with us? Because you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” John questions her in the cab ride over. 

“It’s fine John, really. Remember the severed head in your fridge? I’ve worked in labs before. While I don’t work directly with dead bodies, I have in the past. Plus, I want to help.” Iris smiles and John seems to believe her. They arrive and Lestrade waits for them by the entrance, case file in hand. 

The Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade formally introduces himself to Iris, not questioning why she’s with them, simply trusting Sherlock and moving forward. Greg leads them down to the morgue, John holding the door open for Iris. 

“Connie Prince, 54. She had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?” Lestrade asks Sherlock, leading them over to the covered body of Connie Prince. Sherlock shakes his head, eyes analyzing everything they can over her body. Lestrade continues. “Very popular. She was going places.” 

“Not anymore.” Sherlock remarks rather coldly. John stands at Connie’s feet, Iris just to his left a few steps away. Not in the way but also not hiding. The clinical nature of being in the morgue, seeing the white sheet covering most of her body, and the fact that she was prepared beforehand, Iris does not feel the same sense of dread she felt the night that poor Soo Lin Yao died. 

“Dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound.” Sherlock thinks aloud. John moves to the left of the body, now across from Sherlock, Iris remaining at the feet. She looks down at Connie’s right hand, noticing the thin scar across where the thumb and forefinger meet. “Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream, good night, Vienna.” 

“I suppose.” John adds, now at the head, peering down at her face. 

“Something’s wrong with this picture.” Sherlock looks up and down the body. “It can’t be as simple as it seems otherwise the bomber wouldn’t be directing us towards it. Something’s wrong.” Sherlock pulls out his small magnifying glass, examining Connie’s face. Iris moves closer to the body, noticing slightly bloody cat scratches on Connie's arm. Iris looks back down at the cut, noticing how clean it is, almost like an incision. 

“If she cut her hand while gardening, that deep, it would have bled a lot, right?” Iris asks, pointing down at the laceration. John looks up and agrees. “But the wound’s clean.” She bends down a bit closer. “Very clean, almost fresh I’d say.”

“How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?” Sherlock asks John, standing up straight. 

“Oh, eight, ten days...” John comes around the table next to Iris to look down at the hand. “The cut was made later.” John realizes, Sherlock nodding.

“After she was dead?” Lestrade wonders. 

“Must have been.” Sherlock adds.

“But if she didn’t die from the tetanus on a cut to her hand,” Iris starts, Sherlock finishing her thought: “how did it enter the dead woman’s system?” Sherlock then turns to John. “You wanted to help right? Connie Prince’s background, family history, everything. Get me data.” John looks to Iris, and she nods, following John out of the morgue and onto the street. He hails a cab and soon the two are sitting in front of their computers printing out photos and articles, everything they can find on Connie Prince. 

John decides to check out Connie’s brother, Iris giving him the idea to go as a reporter writing a story on her recent death. Iris stays behind to find more information, Sherlock arriving soon after John’s departure. He begins to hang more photos and articles from all the events so far, making quite a nice display on the wall over the couch. Photos of Carl Powers, Ian Monkford, and now Connie Prince litter the wall, along with police reports and maps, whatever might help piece this puzzle together. 

Lestrade returns with Sherlock, discussing connections and other possible leads. Iris goes back to her flat for more printer paper, coming back up just as a feeble old voice on the line calls out “Three hours. Boom. Boom. Boom.” Sherlock hangs up. Iris stops in the doorway, frozen by the frailty of the voice, picturing someone’s grandmother or great aunt swept up in this absolutely frightening ordeal. 

Sherlock merely puts the phone back in his pocket and resumes his studying of the wall, seemingly unperturbed by the call. Iris moves over towards the printer, adding more paper to print out an article on Connie she’d just found. Mrs. Hudson soon makes her way upstairs, offering the Detective Inspector tea, noticing Iris already holding a cup herself from while she was working with John. He declines and Mrs. Hudson looks up at the wall of papers. Sherlock moves to the opposite side of the room on a phone call, Iris standing next to Mrs. Hudson. They look over the photos of Connie Prince. 

“It’s a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors.” Mrs. Hudson remarks quietly, Iris smiling at the thought of the two of them going through Mrs. Hudson’s closet taking out any color that didn’t fit her skin tone just right. Lestrade’s confusion amuses Iris while Mrs. Hudson explains. “You know, what goes best with what.”

“Mrs. Hudson should never wear cerise, apparently, we got rid of all of it from her wardrobe.” Iris adds, remembering her own closet and the couple of sweaters she contemplated tossing out herself. Sherlock hangs up the phone and returns to the group. Lestrade asks who he was talking to, Sherlock mentioning something about the ‘home office.’

“Well, home secretary actually. Owes me a favor.” Sherlocks pockets his phone in his jacket. Iris wishes she was more surprised at the connections Sherlock has, though Mycroft’s connections seem just as vast, if not greater.

“She’s a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces.” Mrs. Hudson remarks, Iris remembering the episodes before and after Connie’s recent botox injections. 

“It was only two Tuesdays ago that she even got the work done, she really looked fine before. Though that was right after the Friday’s big blowout with her brother, so who knows.” Iris tuts, mostly to herself, figuring Sherlock too lost in thought to hear her. She notices him eyeing her. “What? We’ve been watching a lot of television.” Iris shrugs.

Realizing he’s skeptical about the dates she rolls her eyes. “Oh come on Sherlock, I’m not lying, really I’m not. Her brother and her fought on the show on Friday the 5th, then the show went off for a couple days and she came back on Tuesday the 9th and it was clear she had some work done.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but some of the skepticism seems to fade, or at least Iris hopes it does. 

Sherlock’s phone rings and Iris walks back over to the desk, setting her near empty tea cup down. It’s John calling from Connie’s place, saying they need to get over there quickly, he might have found something. John tells Sherlock to grab some camera equipment, and it seems like he wants to play along with the journalist idea. Sherlock hangs up and grabs his coat, Iris following behind. 

Once settled in the cab, Sherlock glances over at Iris who’s looking out the window. Curiosity gets the better of him.

“So, you remember everything that’s ever happened to you?” Iris looks over at Sherlock, realizing he’s not lost in his phone like usual. 

“Basically, yeah. The early stuff before I was 8 is a bit hazy, but I can recall any event that happened to me on any day after that.”

“Do you just think of the date and it pops up?” Sherlock’s interest is a nice change for Iris, glad he’s seemed to have lost some of the disbelief. 

“That, or I can think of an event and the date will just sort of appear. Like a scrolling calendar that I can flip through if asked. But the memories also resurface when I don’t ask them to, like something will happen, there will be a word or a smell that will pull up previous memories and they feel as fresh and real as if they just happened. Whatever emotion they had years ago still feels brand new now.”

Sherlock nods his head, piecing things together. “So when you’ve been lost in thought, you’ve really been,”

“Literally lost in thought. Some theorize it’s an offshoot of OCD, that the person overthinks everything that’s happened and thereby manages to store short term memories in the long term regions, so helping my anxiety sometimes helps the frequency of the flashbacks. I’ve also found a few tricks that can help pull me out if I get too lost in it all, something physical like a shake of my head or slap on the knee can kind of jolt me out of it, but I really have no control.”

 _Crying in high school over getting lost at the store, the memory so clear it takes her breath away as students around her talk about getting lost in the school’s hay maze. Standing in line at the movies, seeing a poster ad for a bike race movie, pulling forward the memory of breaking her arm so sharply her arm actually began to ache._ Realizing the irony of her memory choosing this moment to resurface, Iris smacks her open palm on the top of her knee, opening her eyes.

“Damn it.” Iris mutters. 

“Interesting...” Sherlock mutters quietly, pulling out his phone and cloaking the cab in silence.

They arrive at the house of Connie Prince, Sherlock pulling out the camera bag and tossing it over his shoulder. Iris pulls out a small notepad from her bag, pen ready to take notes. They enter in through the kitchen, hearing John in the living room. The house is large and very white, sparkling clean from top to bottom, with loud, gaudy furniture and artwork across every wall. A tall man, one of the staff Iris assumes, watches them enter, silently cursing at them for stepping on the newly cleaned tile floor. Sherlock goes right to Connie’s brother.

“Ah, Mr. Prince, isn’t it? Very good to meet you.” Sherlock shakes his hand quickly. “So, uh, shall we?” Sherlock asks, turning away from the brother and back to John and Iris on the other side of the couch. John whispers hurriedly to them.

“You were right, the bacteria got into her another way.” Unable to say more before the brother interrupts them, Iris wonders what John means by ‘another way.’ If there was another way for the poison to enter her system, what proof could Mr. Prince have at his house? 

Sherlock pulls out the camera from his bag, handing Iris the second lens and the lens cap. He moves to the mantle where Mr. Prince poses dramatically while Sherlock snaps photos. The flash is quite bright, blinking rapidly with each click. A loud meow pulls Iris’ focus, looking down to see a hairless cat weaving in between her legs. 

“Who’s this cutie?” Iris asks, reaching down to pat it on the head. Mr. Prince says the cat’s name is ‘Sekhmet,’ a bit unusual but then again, it’s a hairless cat in a very strange house. “That’s nice, was she Connie’s cat?” 

“Yes, a little present from yours truly.” Mr. Prince responds while lifting Sekhmet up. John eyes the cat and then looks back to Iris.

“Iris, Sherlock, how about a light reading?” John emphasizes, nodding his head to Sherlock’s bag. Iris opens it and pulls out the separate flash, turning it on and lifting it up towards Mr. Prince. Sherlock raises his camera and the two snap more photos, twice as bright flash blinking haphazardly, temporarily blinding Mr. Prince. John manages to reach over to the cat’s paws, touching and smelling them. Before the man can complain any more, John makes their excuses and the three bolt out of the kitchen back to the main road. 

John laughs happily to himself as they get further away from the house, Iris reaching for Sherlock’s camera bag still on his shoulder, returning the second flash and helping him not drop the camera in his hand. John seems right pleased with himself, Sherlock smiling slyly. 

“You think it was the cat. It wasn’t the cat.” Sherlock says before John can make some grand deduction. Iris realizes that’s why he was sniffing the cat’s paws. John glares at Sherlock.

“Not... Yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It’s how he got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.”

“Lovely idea.” Sherlock tries placating him, but even Iris figures it wasn’t the cat.

“No, he coated it onto the claws of her cat. It’s a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn’t-” John remains steadfast in his deduction.

“But how would he be sure the cat would scratch her? It’s not like you can give a cat a command to attack her, or attack her hard enough to draw blood...” Iris feels bad squashing John’s brilliant idea like this, but it just doesn’t make sense.

“I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it is too random and too clever for the brother.” Sherlock explains.

“He murdered his sister for her money.” John retorts, convinced this was how it happened.

“Did he? Nope, it was revenge.” Sherlock concludes.

“The brother wanted revenge?” John seems skeptical.

“Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister’s jokes week in, week out. A virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough. Fell out with her badly. It’s all on the website.”

“And there was that big blow out when Connie threatened to disinherit Kenny! That was right before the show went off for a couple of days...” Iris remembers. 

“Exactly. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle-”

John moves in front of Sherlock and Iris, stopping them on their walk down the path. “Wait. Wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant then, on the cat’s claws?”

“That kitchen smelled like it was doused in cleaning supplies, Raoul looked like he wanted to hit me with a mop for walking in with my shoes on.” Iris counters, Sherlock nodding his head. 

“The cat doesn’t come into it, though Raoul’s internet history does, I hope we can get a cab from here.” Sherlock finishes in one thought, taking off to the end of the block. 

They end up back at Scotland Yard, Sherlock pulling out a large file of Raoul’s internet searches and the second autopsy showing it wasn’t the tetanus that killed Connie, but botulinum toxin, same as what killed Carl Powers. Iris stands off with John, wondering then how Connie died too. 

“We’ve been here before, Carl Powers. Tut tut, our bomber’s repeated himself.” Sherlock adds with a bit of disappointment, like he was hoping for something more dramatic? Iris and John make eye contact. John turns back to Sherlock.

“So how’d he do it?” John asks, Iris suddenly aware of the time. They only have one hour left to save that unfortunate old lady. 

“Botox injection. Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things. Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the home office gave me the complete records of Raoul’s internet purchases. He’s been bulk-ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.” Lestrade nods, starting to lead Sherlock into his office. Something occurs to Iris.

“Wait, Sherlock, you were on the phone with the home office hours ago. We even talked about the Botox back at the flat. How long have you known it was the injections?” John tenses next to Iris, realizing that Sherlock has left this poor woman in absolute fear for hours. 

“The hostage, the old woman, she’s been there all this time!” John exclaims, seething with anger.

“I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us 12 hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don’t you see? We’re one up on him.” Sherlock explains before dashing off after Lestrade. Iris and John simply stand there, sharing the same thought. 

“So, this is all just a game for Sherlock, isn’t it? Just a giant box of puzzles for him to solve.” Iris thinks aloud. John sighs but nods. “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t lose any pieces.”

In Lestrade’s office, Iris watches from the doorway while Sherlock posts onto his website: “Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.” Causing the pink phone to ring once again. Sherlock answers, a horrified ‘Help me!’ on the other end of the line. Sherlock asks for the woman’s address, where to find her, but she begins to say something else.

“He was so... His voice...”

“No, no! Tell me nothing about him, nothing.” Sherlock tries to cut her off but it’s no use. Her frail voice calls out over the line. 

“He sounded so... soft-” there is half a second of what sounds like a gunshot, followed by the line cutting completely dead, Sherlock frozen in shock. The moment registers across everyone, Iris closing her eyes and putting her head in her hands. John exhales and Sherlock simply puts the phone down and sits back in the chair. 

The cab ride back home is silent, John refusing to look at Sherlock, Sherlock simply looking out the window. The night passes quietly, Iris dreaming about the old lady, wondering why this maniac continues to torment people, and why he seems so interested in Sherlock. 

The following morning Iris heads upstairs to check on John and Sherlock, having forgotten one of her mugs and laptop from the day before. She knocks lightly on the open door, seeing John and Sherlock both in their chairs, watching the small television mounted on the bookshelf by the kitchen. The windows, still not fixed yet, have a cold chill seeping into the room, causing Iris to pull her cardigan closer around her.

The same news reporter Iris saw on her phone when she woke up, reporting a massive explosion that killed 12 people in a residential building. It seems the old lady wasn’t the only casualty that night. 

“He certainly gets around.” Iris says flatly, moving over to where her mug still sits next to her laptop on the desk. John turns his head to acknowledge her, Sherlock unmoving in his chair.

“Well, obviously I lost that round.” Sherlock admits. “Although technically, I did solve the case.” He says pettily while muting the television. Sherlock pauses, contemplative. “He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

“What do you mean?” Iris asks, leaning her hip on the desk next to her. 

“Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact.” 

“What, like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that?” John speculates. “So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up like booking a holiday?”

“He’s like you but in reverse Sherlock.” Iris concludes. “People have a crime they need solved, they call you. They have a crime they want to be committed, they call him.”

“Novel.” Sherlock says excitedly. He looks down at the pink phone on his armrest. “Taking his time this time.”

“Anything on the Carl Powers case?” John asks quietly, watching the silent television.

“Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless, no connection.” Sherlock responds.

“Maybe the killer was older than Carl?” Iris offers, Sherlock looking over at her and nodding.

“The thought had occurred.” Sherlock returns to the television.

John finally asks what Iris has been wondering since this whole ordeal started. “So why is he doing this, then? Playing this game with you.”

“Do you think he wants to be caught?” Iris adds, wondering who this crazy man is, and why he seems so obsessed with Sherlock.

“I think he wants to be distracted.” Sherlock grins, placing his steepled fingers under his chin. John huffs out a laugh, rising from his chair.

“Ha, I hope you’ll be very happy together.” The disappointment and anger radiate from John, Iris sharing in similar emotions. Sherlock simply looks confused.

“Sorry, what?” He asks, John turning sharply around from the kitchen.

“There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?” John exclaims. 

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock asks coldly. 

“Nope.” John shakes his head.

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.” Sherlock states sharply.

“And you find that easy, do you?” Iris asks in disbelief that Sherlock really can’t care about any of these people. Sherlock simply nods with a “Yes, very.”

“Is that news to either of you?” Sherlock accuses. Iris thinks back to all her interactions with Sherlock or Sherlock interacting with others. She shakes her head realizing, no, this isn’t news for her. John shares a similar look. Sherlock looks between John and Iris for a beat. “I’ve disappointed you both it seems.”

John chuckles. “That’s good, that’s a good deduction, yeah.”

“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.” Sherlock says calmly. John doesn’t respond, simply staring at Sherlock. Before either can say anything else, the phone beeps at Sherlock’s elbow. He checks it, explaining something about a bank on the water, some photo they need to identify. He tells John to look in the papers while he looks online, but John still hasn’t moved from behind his chair. 

Both fists planted into the back of it, John hangs his head. Sherlocks clicks his tongue. “Oh, you’re angry with me, so you won’t help. Not much cop, this caring lark.” John looks back up at Sherlock, then over to Iris. Iris simply shrugs, fully agreeing with John, but actually understanding what Sherlock means. John exhales before giving in and moving over to the papers on the coffee table near the couch. Iris watches him cross the room.

“Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need a hand... or not, whatever. Good luck with this one Sherlock.” Iris moves with her mug in her hand, laptop under her arm, towards the stairs. “Try not to lose any puzzle pieces this time.” She calls out as she starts down the stairs. 

Iris’ day passes uneventfully; she makes some phone calls to Sam and friends back in New York, unable to reach her PI for any new information on her case so far. Iris checks in with Mrs. Hudson, offering to cook her dinner and the two spend the evening chatting about Connie Prince. 

Iris does not hear from either John of Sherlock until early evening the following day, when she hears Sherlock shouting obscenely loud at what, she assumes, is the television? Iris heads up to check on her neighbors, laughing at the scene she stumbles in on: John sitting at the desk, typing away on his computer, while Sherlock sits in his leather chair, in his coat, knees pulled up to his chest, watching television. Iris also notices the severe drop in temperature up here, with the windows still blown out from the explosion a few days ago, the chilly London weather has made their flat ice cold. 

The television has some program on, much like the ones Iris watches with Mrs. Hudson, and Iris can’t believe that Sherlock seems to be sucked into the show. He shouts at the screen something about the turn-ups on someone’s jeans, laughing with John at how bad of an idea it was to get Sherlock hooked on ‘crap telly’ as John calls it. 

Glad to know there’s no immediate danger up here, Iris leans casually on the doorframe, finding this is one of her new favorite places to be. John shares a look with Iris, rolling his eyes as he turns back to his blog.

“Did you two ever sort those missile plans your brother wanted you to find?” 

Sherlock nods, still engrossed in the program. John turns to look at him.

“And have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?” John furthers, Iris guesses Sherlock was the last one to see the newly found missile plans, but hadn’t heard that they were dropped off.

“Yep. He was over the moon.” Iris smirks at the idea of Mycroft being anything remotely ‘over the moon,’ though she’s glad that got sorted out as well. “Threatened me with a knighthood... again.” Sherlock exhales like that is a cross he has to bear with his brother. 

“You know, I’m still waiting... For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you’d have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker.” 

“Is that the Lost Vermeer I saw on the news? It did actually turn out to be a fake?” Iris recalls the news this morning, a centuries-old painting thought to be worth millions turns up and was about to go on exhibition when it was discovered to be a very well-made forgery. 

“Yes, and I figured it out in less than ten seconds, thank you very much.” Sherlock responds proudly, causing John to snort.

“Yeah, but if you remembered those deleted bits of information regarding the solar system, that kid he had wouldn’t have had to count all the way down to two.” Iris’ eyes widen.

“He took a kid this time?” Iris asks shocked. John nods disappointedly, Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“I solved it in time, didn’t I? Also, that ‘knowledge’ didn’t do you any good, did it John?”

“No, but I’m not the world’s only consulting detective.” John fires back.

“Oo, he’s got you there Sherlock.” Iris teases, causing Sherlock to tighten his coat around him and refocus on the television. John rises from his seat and readjusts his jacket to head out.

“Off to Sarah’s?” Iris asks, John nodding in agreement.

“There’s still some of that risotto left in the fridge,” John offers to Sherlock, stopping midway across the room “Ah, milk, we need some milk.”

“I’ll get some.” Sherlock offers from his chair, not looking up from the television. John’s eyes widen and he looks to Iris who shrugs just as surprised. 

“Really?” John asks. Sherlock agrees. John decides to test his luck, “And some beans, then?” Sherlock simply nodding, then back to his program. John turns back and nods to Iris, smiling at the idea of Sherlock doing the shopping for once, before heading down the stairs. Iris stays for a moment, watching Sherlock. Seeing as he’s fully engrossed in the television, Iris decides to head back to her flat.

“Goodnight Sherlock.” Iris makes her way down, hearing a soft ‘Night,’ called from Sherlock behind her. Iris reaches the landing only to see that John must have left the front door to the building open. A huge gust of wind blows through the entryway, Iris moving towards it to close the door. Iris steps out to see if she can catch John when she sees two men dressed in all black, hoods over their faces, dragging an unconscious John towards a car. Iris is about to call out to stop them, when someone jumps her from behind, muffling her scream with his hand, a sharp jab from a needle in her neck slowly pulling Iris into utter darkness.

~.~ 

Iris comes to in a completely dark room, so dark she almost wonders if her vision has been seriously impaired, only a handful of blinking red lights in the room tell her she’s not completely blind. It’s damp and her cheeks are cold. Chemicals fill Iris’ nostrils, something like chlorine or cleaning supplies, she’s not quite sure. There’s a thick coat on her, but it seems heavier than a coat should be. Iris looks down at her chest to see some of those red blinking lights are actually on her. And it’s not just a coat, but some sort of device strapped to her. Iris’ breathing starts to pick up, her eyes slowly adjusting to the cramped room she’s in.

Suddenly, there is movement across from her and in the very dim light Iris makes out John, slumped across from her on the ground. He comes to sharply, inhaling rapidly as he tries to assess where he is.

“John.” Iris whispers urgently. She manages to get to her knees, slowly reaching out towards him. John sits up, then looks down at a device very similar to Iris’ strapped to his own chest.

“Iris? Are you hurt?” Iris makes contact with John’s forearm, him reaching out with his other hand to reach for her elbow. There seems to be some light coming from under the door, and with their eyes somewhat adjusted, Iris sees her fear and panic mirrored in John’s face. She’s about to answer when the door opens, blinding them both.

More men invade the small space, one yanking John up and two taking Iris. She starts to struggle when one of the men grabs her by her face harshly. His fingers are rough against her cheeks, his wrist pushing up onto her windpipe making it hard to breathe. He’s a beefy-looking man, with blonde hair and tattoos all over his neck. Iris wishes she could find the strength to bite or kick or do _something,_ but being overpowered by these men has rendered her petrified.

“Make one wrong move and you get blown to bits, do you understand?” Iris panics in the restraint but manages to nod slightly. Whimpering, the man releases Iris’ face, and she looks down to see that the device with the blinking red lights is in fact a bomb, identical to the one John wears next to her. One of the men holding John begins to rig him up with an earpiece, and another one does the same to Iris. 

“Now, when you’re instructed to, you will exit through that door and say everything you’re told to. One wrong move out there and you will be shot, blowing up those pretty vests we have on you.” The man with the tattoos zips up the jacket on Iris, covering up the explosive device, and his hands linger just a bit too long up at Iris’ neck. As cliché as it is, Iris knew that if looks could kill, John’s look right now would have all three of these men out cold on the floor.

All but the burly tattooed man leave Iris and John, Iris still glued to her current spot, unable to move. In quick glances, Iris sees that they are in a hallway of some kind, the initial room they were in a janitor’s closet in what seems to be a gym or pool. Signs point to locker rooms and saunas, the door nearest them reading “Pool” above their heads. Iris’ eyes fall on John, wondering what he’s feeling at the moment. Any sort of fear or panic Iris saw earlier is completely gone. Before her stands Captain John Watson, the military man Iris read about from his blog posts online. 

John nods distinctly, steady and strong, trying his best to convey to Iris that it will be okay. John’s resoluteness steadies Iris, but her adrenaline has her body completely freaking out. Outside the door, Iris hears Sherlock’s voice, booming out.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. That’s what it’s all been for, isn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this.” Iris wonders what Sherlock’s talking about. Iris looks to John for what to do. 

John looks away, Iris realizing that he’s listening to something, or someone, in his ear. He takes a deep breath and the beefy-looking man opens the door to the pool. John walks out, hands in his pockets. The door clangs shut behind him, leaving Iris alone with the creep next to her, panic rising up in her throat. 

“Evening. This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” John’s monotone voice rings out, Iris realizing that they’re making it look like John is the mastermind behind this. Sherlock’s confusion reads clearly in his voice.

“John! What the hell?”

“Bet you never saw this coming...” There’s a pause and Iris wonders if he managed to unzip his jacket to reveal the bomb. “What would you like me to make him say next?” John asks.

Suddenly, a voice, soft and strange, invades her ear. It is almost familiar, though Iris does not have the focus to try and pinpoint where she recognizes it.

“Hello there dearie. Your turn.” The guard opens the door, but Iris can’t seem to make her feet move. Annoyed, the guard grabs her tightly by the upper arm and shoves her out the door. Iris stumbles from the force of his push, taking a few steps to try and stay upright, almost walking directly into a giant pool. 

John seems to be saying something along the lines of “gottle o’ gear, gottle o’ gear,” and Sherlock is at the other end of the pool. He’s turning in circles trying to find the source of all this, Iris seeing the vastness of the room. Two stories, lots of hidden alcoves and dark corners, Iris realizes that the strange voice could be anywhere. The voice invades Iris’ ear again.

“Now unzip your jacket and say ‘Nice touch, this.’” She looks down at her zipped-up jacket, undoing the zipper slowly, realizing that there are about three or four red laser dots darting all around her. Snipers that could be anywhere, ready to detonate the device strapped to her. 

“Nice touch, this.” Iris manages to make out without completely shaking out of her skin. She echoes everything the eerie voice in her ear says. “The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him.” Sherlock slowly makes his way down the pool towards them, on high alert. 

“I can stop John Watson.” John calls out next to her. 

“And I can stop your little neighbor friend too. Stop their hearts.” Iris trembles but manages to stay upright. Sherlock battles between confusion and anger, turning around trying to find him. 

“Who are you?” Sherlock sounds almost exasperated. A door creaks open on the other end of the pool, Iris closing her eyes. The same eerie voice in her ear suddenly calls out for everyone to hear.

“I gave you my number.” The voice says coolly. “I thought you might call.”

Iris’ eyes snap open, her and John turning to follow Sherlock’s gaze across the room. Out the door walks Jim, from Bart’s. Though now he’s wearing a perfectly tailored dark suit, carrying himself completely differently as he makes his way over. Not Jim from IT, with his awkward stuttering or clumsily knocking over trays, but rather Jim, the Consulting Criminal.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” Jim calls out, hands casually in his pants pockets. Iris looks back to Sherlock to see him reach into the back of his waistband, producing a handgun and aiming it at Jim.

“Both.” Sherlock responds, Iris wishing Sherlock would choose a different time to be cheeky. She turns back to Jim at the end of the pool. 

“Jim Moriarty. Hi.” The lilt in his voice makes the hair on the back of Iris’ neck stand up straight. She looks away from Jim, over to John directly across from her. His face is unreadable. Jim continues with his little introduction. “Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point.” Sherlock looks to Iris and then to John, noting the red dots still dancing across both their chests. 

Jim cuts off his thought. “Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty. I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see. Like you.”

“'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?’ ‘Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?’” Sherlock lists, both hands now fully supporting the handgun still trained on Jim’s face across the way. 

“Just so.” Jim shrugs. Sherlock almost looks impressed, calling him a consulting criminal. “Brilliant, isn’t it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.”

With a swift click, Sherlock cocks the gun adding, “I did.” Iris suddenly feels the overwhelming fear of having a gun that close to her, quelled only by the fact that its target is not her but rather Jim much farther down the walkway behind her. 

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.” Jim replies almost as a threat.

“Thank you.” Sherlock replies.

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.” 

“Yes, you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting’s over Sherlock, Daddy’s had enough now.” Jim calls out in a sing-songy way that makes Iris cringe. Iris hears Jim’s footsteps as he starts to make his way down their end of the pool, getting closer and closer. “I’ve shown you what I can do. I cut lose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.” A moment passes between them, Sherlock registering it all. Jim continues. “Although I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?” Jim adds smugly.

“People have died.” Sherlock states, Iris thinking back to the old woman and all the other hostages taken or killed during this little ‘game.’ Jim almost reaches their little trio in the middle of the walkway, Iris being the closest of the three to him. 

Out of nowhere, Jim’s voice raises, shouting almost right in Iris’ face: “That’s what people DO!” His voice echoes throughout the entire room, Iris shutting her eyes in fear. 

“I will stop you.” Sherlock says decidedly. Jim remains calm.

“No, you won’t.” Jim says arrogantly.

“Are you two alright?” Sherlock asks, Iris’ eyes still shut, still painfully aware of how close this madman is to her. When neither responds, Jim reaches up and takes Iris’ chin gingerly, causing her eyes to snap open. He smiles a sick smile, before turning to John over his shoulder. 

“You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead.” Chin still in his hand, Iris watches John simply nod, Sherlock’s eyes moving to her. Jim thankfully releases her and Iris nods her head as well, wishing at that moment she could scrub her face off. 

“Take it.” Sherlock offers the flash drive to Jim. It seems Sherlock hadn’t returned the flash drive to Mycroft, instead offering it as that ‘getting-to-know-you’ present. Curious, Jim walks over to Sherlock, taking the drive from him. 

“That? The missile plans.” Jim brings the drive to his lips, Iris grateful to not be that piece of plastic. “Boring! I could have got them anywhere.” With a flick of his wrist, Jim tosses the flash drive into the pool. 

In a flash, John runs up and seizes Jim from behind, wrapping one arm under Jim’s right shoulder, the other over the top of his left, grabbing him across the chest. Without thinking, Iris jumps up and grabs onto Jim similarly on the left. Realizing what they’ve just done, Iris knows she can’t let go, and so she loops one of her hands under Jim’s arm, the other over his shoulder, linking them both together over John’s arms. The two latch on tightly, John shouting, “Sherlock, run!” 

Jim’s laughing causes both Iris and John to tense up. Jim lets a loud “Good!” out, Iris’ face scrunching with confusion. “Very good.” John still struggles next to Iris.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we all go up.” 

“Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. Her too, but then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal.” Jim turns his head to invade John’s space over his shoulder. Iris tries not to think about the idea of her and John being Sherlock’s ‘pets,’ but that’s a conversation for later.

“But oops!” Jim shouts, and Iris stares in horror as a bright red sniper dot lands squarely on Sherlock’s forehead. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. You too, Ms. Moretti. Gotcha.” Like magnets repelling, John and Iris release Jim quickly, both stepping back with their hands raised in the air. The red dot disappears from Sherlock’s forehead, Iris exhaling quietly to herself. Jim chuckles and readjusts his jacket, “Westwood,” he teases. 

“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? Do you?” Jim asks.

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed.” Sherlock says annoyed, gun still pointed at Jim’s face.

“Kill you? Mm, no. Don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway someday. I don’t want to rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.” The emotion welling up in his voice startles Iris, still completely disturbed by the vast range this insane man has simply with his voice. 

“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Sherlock retorts coolly. 

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” Jim whispers. “Well, I’d better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.”

“What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?” Sherlock readjusts his grip on the gun, only a few feet away from Jim’s face. Iris tries to steady herself for the possibility of that happening right in front of her. 

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” From just the back of his head, Iris can tell he’s made some obscenely large face of shock for Sherlock. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed.” A beat passes between the two of them, Iris looking to John, who simply hangs his head. 

“And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.” Jim adds. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” Jim exits through the door Iris was shoved through before, Sherlock watching him go.

“Catch... you... later.” Sherlock follows with his gun until the door shuts firmly. 

“No you won’t!” Jim calls in a high-pitched voice from the hallway. 

Suddenly, the gun in Sherlock’s hand is on the ground, and he moves to fully unzip John’s jacket, yanking it sharply off of him, taking the explosive device with it. “Alright? Are you all right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” John responds dazedly. Once off, Sherlock slides the bomb vest as far as he can away from them, down the walkway to where Jim first arrived. Next, Sherlock moves over to Iris, removing her device and jacket in a similar manner, Iris numb to most of it. Again, he asks, “Are you alright?” Iris simply nods, glad to be rid of the vest, the adrenaline quickly leaving her system. Sherlock leaves her to pick up the gun and go out the side door where Jim left. Iris watches John try to take a few steps only to sink to the floor. He manages to catch the wall in front of him, turning around and sliding down to a crouch on the floor, breathing deeply. 

Sherlock reenters, pacing rapidly between the two of them. Iris realizes her knees are about to give out completely beneath her and she manages to catch Sherlock on one of his turns in front of her, grabbing his shoulder. Sherlock jumps, but realizes what Iris is doing, and helps guide her to her knees in a controlled descent rather than a sharp fall. Once stable, Sherlock stands back up, resuming his pacing. Seemingly unaware of the gun in his hand, Sherlock uses it to scratch the back of his head in puzzlement. John looks up at him.

“Are you okay?” John asks dully.

“Me? Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Fine.” The more times Sherlock says ‘fine,’ the less Iris believes him. “That, uh... thing that you... that you both... That, um... you both offered to do, that was, um... Good.” Sherlock stammers. 

“I’m glad no one saw that.” John says from his crouch up against the wall. Sherlock looks at him confused. “You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.” If Iris had the energy to actually laugh she would, managing only a slight snort instead. 

“They do little else.” Sherlock achieves a small smile. The three share a small laugh, Iris starting to regain feeling in her hands again, realizing that they’ve been numb this whole time. John starts to stand back up when Iris notices his shirt, eyes going wide. She looks down at her own sweater, the red dots having returned, this time on all three of them. 

A door opens at the far end of the pool and out pops Jim again, calling out “Sorry, folks. I’m _so_ changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness.” 

Sherlock’s back is to Jim, Iris and John in front of him on the floor on either side. He manages a glance down to each of them. A question passes between them, John looking from Sherlock down the walkway to Jim. He nods, Sherlock looking to Iris. She swallows down as much fear as she can, exhaling slowly and nodding as well. 

“You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t.” Jim explains. “I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” A final glance to John and Iris, Sherlock readies himself for his response. Turning swiftly, gun still in hand, Sherlock aims for Jim.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours.” Sherlock’s aim slowly shifts from Jim’s face to the pile of bomb vests between them. John steadies himself, looking to Iris, who locks her elbows tightly, hands splayed out over her thighs, watching Sherlock’s gun lower and zero in on the highly dangerous explosives only a few yards away from them. Iris nods to John before closing her eyes, trying to even out her breathing as she prepares for Sherlock to fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a cliffhanger!


	5. A Scandal in Belgravia

_“Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive, ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive,”_ The gentle melody rings out in the cavernous swimming pool. Iris’s eyes snap open, looking around with John and Sherlock as to where that song, of all songs, was coming from. Eventually, Iris manages to pinpoint the origin of the ringtone: Jim Moriarty’s pocket. Jim rolls his eyes in annoyance at the interruption.

“Do you mind if I get that?” Jim asks. 

“Oh no, please. You’ve got the rest of your life.” Sherlock answers, Iris feeling like this is probably the most ‘British’ interaction she’s ever witnessed. Jim answers the call.

“Hello? Yes, of course it is. What do you want?” Jim turns away slightly, mouthing ‘sorry’ down to the three of them, Sherlock mouthing ‘it’s fine’ back, like they aren’t just waiting around for Sherlock to shoot a bomb. Iris looks to John who seems to be as confused as she is, merely gazing back down at the two bomb vests that were only moments ago strapped to her and John. Jim’s shout startles them both.

“Say that again!” He angrily cries. “Say that again and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will _skin_ you.” The emphasis on ‘skin’ gives Iris goosebumps, and she tries not to imagine how many times he’s followed through on that threat. “Wait.” Jim brings the phone down, looking off slightly. He refocuses on Sherlock, walking a few steps towards them, closer to the explosives crumpled on the floor. “Sorry, wrong day to die.” He says flatly.

“Oh. Did you get a better offer?” Sherlock asks, gun still pointed at the explosives at Jim’s feet. Jim doesn’t answer, only looking back down at his phone and then turning to leave.

“You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.” Jim walks further and further away from them, bringing the phone back to his ear. “So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I will make you into shoes.” With a loud snap of his fingers, Jim exits the pool, Iris noticing the red sniper dots have vanished from the three of them. Iris exhales, dropping forward onto her hands, hanging her head down. John sighs, looking up at Sherlock.

“What happened there?” John asks, Sherlock turning around trying to see if he can spot any of the snipers.

“Someone changed his mind. The question is, who?” Sherlock ponders. Iris manages to steady her breathing somewhat, still on her hands and knees by the edge of the pool. She hears John stand and make his way over to her. He places a hand on her shoulder, kneeling down.

“You alright?” John asks. Iris raises her head, tears drying on her face. She swallows the lump in her throat and manages a small nod. John gets his arm under her and helps Iris to her feet. Sherlock places the gun back into his waistband, pulling out his phone. 

“I’m going to call Lestrade, get bomb disposal down here.” Sherlock walks out into the hallway. John stands in front of Iris, trying to make eye contact with her, though her eyes have somewhat glazed over in a numbness she’s never felt before. One hand still on her upper arm, John resorts to snapping his fingers in front of her face, tapping her chin down a bit to get her to look at him. 

“Iris, hey, look at me. Look at me.” John asks urgently. Iris inhales sharply, blinking a few times trying to focus on John in front of her. “There you go, just look at me. We’re going to get out of here and get you home, alright?” The adrenaline rapidly leaving her system sends Iris into quite a bit of shock. John moves to her side, keeping one arm behind her back in support, the other out front in case she falls forward. Shakily, Iris manages a few steps. They head out the door towards Sherlock, seeing him hanging up his cellphone. 

“He said they’ll be here as soon as possible, told us to wait out front for him.” John nods in recognition to Sherlock, still keeping a firm grip on Iris. They make their way out of the pool, finding a nearby bench to sit Iris on while they wait. Sherlock moves down to the curb to try and spot Lestrade’s car, John standing next to Iris. He starts to take a few steps to join Sherlock when Iris’ hand shoots out and grabs his shirt sleeve. Wordlessly she asks him to stay, and John does, placing a hand on her shoulder in comfort. 

Soon the entire parking lot out in front of the gym floods with flashing police lights and a giant armored truck labeled ‘Bomb Disposal’ with men in full bomb protection suits going inside. Lestrade jogs over from his car to join Sherlock on the curb, Iris watching silently with John. An ambulance appears, John managing to flag down one of the medics. He’s a young man, a bit on the heavier side, wearing glasses and a kind smile as he kneels down in front of Iris. She doesn’t speak but acknowledges him with actual eye contact. 

“Hi there. My name is Todd, is it alright if I check you out?” Iris nods once, looking to John. Todd begins to open the bag slung over his shoulder. “What’s your name, dear?” Iris tries to open her mouth but just can’t make her muscles work. John steps in.

“Her name is Iris, I’m John. We both got jabbed with something, knocked us out for a bit. Came to with a couple of bomb vests strapped to us, manhandled by a few blokes...” John explains, Iris extremely grateful to not have to talk. John pauses, not sure how much more to tell about Mr. Jim Moriarty. “Well, let’s just say it’s been quite an eventful evening.”

“I see, well let me just check your vitals and let’s see if we can’t get you both wrapped up and home, away from all this, okay?” Iris nods again. Todd pulls out a blood pressure cuff, reaching up to slide it over Iris’ arm. John keeps his hand on Iris’ shoulder next to her, watching as Todd checks her out.

Pulse, blood pressure, and pupils, all are checked calmly without any problem. It’s not until he reaches up to place a hand on Iris’ chin to extend her neck and try to find the needle’s puncture mark that Iris physically reacts. Her hand flies swiftly to Todd’s wrist, grabbing it in a vice grip, her breathing starting to increase rapidly. Todd’s hand instantly goes slack, trying to show her he means no harm, John moving his hand away from her shoulder to place it gently over Iris’ hand. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay Iris, just breath.” John says evenly. Iris blinks a few times, slowly coming back to the present, sheepishly pulling her hand away in embarrassment. Her eyes fall to her lap.

“No worries, that was my fault, I should have asked.” Todd smiles softly, placing his equipment back into his bag. “Everything medically looks fine, just shock from the ordeal. The puncture wound doesn’t seem bad, but I’ll give you a little wipe you can use to clean it on your own.” He produces a couple of small packaged wipes, handing them to John. 

“Thank you.” John says. Todd looks back to Iris, trying to catch her eye.

“Take it easy, okay? Get home, drink something warm, try to get some sleep. The shock should subside on its own in a couple of hours.” Iris peeks out from her gaze in her lap to look at Todd, nodding her thanks. Todd rises and shakes John’s hand before turning back to the ambulance. 

“Let’s get you back now, okay Iris?” Iris nods to John, trying to stand on her own. She manages to, John only there in case she needs him. He avoids directly touching her unless she asks, and Iris manages to take a few steps on her own. She looks out over the scene, police officers and neighbors in the area curious as to what’s happening. Sherlock finishes talking with Lestrade, him jotting down notes in his little journal as Sherlock rejoins John and Iris. 

“I gave him our statement, and Lestrade has one of his men ready to drive us back to Baker Street.” Sherlock relays. 

A quiet ride back to Baker Street finds the three in the dark foyer of the building. Iris checks her watch to see it’s almost two o’clock in the morning. Sherlock starts to climb the stairs slowly, John waiting at the base watching Iris. She stands in the entryway, staring at her door, not wanting to go in by herself. A new set of tears well up and over her cheeks, Iris grateful for the dimly lit foyer. She turns to look at John at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock, realizing John hasn’t followed him, turns back down the few stairs he was on. He looks to Iris.

“I... um... I don’t think I can go in... by myself.” Iris manages out quietly. She thought of knocking on Mrs. Hudson’s door, but she really didn’t want to wake her this late at night. Unable to go to her, unable to go into her own flat, Iris sniffles, mad at herself for crying again. John moves closer to Iris, gently reaching up to place his hand on her shoulder, watching for a reaction. When Iris simply closes her eyes and reaches her other hand up to wipe her cheek with her sleeve, John gives her a reassuring squeeze.

“Why don’t you kip up on our sofa? We’ve got some extra pillows and a blanket or two, I’ll make some tea, come on.” John softly tugs on her arm, Iris exhaling and following him. Sherlock makes it to the top of the stairs first, turning on a few lamps. John follows Iris up the stairs just in case she can’t manage on her own, leading her into the living room. Sherlock moves to the desk, sifting through some papers, while John climbs up the stairs to his room, returning shortly with a couple of pillows and a nice thick blanket. With the windows still blown out, John moves to shut the curtains to help keep out some of the chill.

John’s return spurs her to move to the couch, Iris listening as John goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Iris notices Sherlock moving for an instrument case of some sort, realizing that he’s been the one playing the violin all those nights she couldn’t sleep. She’s listened from her bed downstairs, hearing beautiful melody after melody. She’s a fairly heavy sleeper, so it was never distracting and never actually woke her up, it was far enough away that she could enjoy it without being annoyed. Sherlock pauses before reaching the case, turning to Iris on the couch. He pulls his hand back and is about to move away when Iris stops him.

“Oh, please, it won’t bother me. It’d be nice actually.” Iris attempts a smile, grabbing one of the pillows John gave her and leaning her elbows on it on her lap. Sherlock only responds by pulling out the case and lifting a beautiful violin and bow from it. He tunes a bit, Iris watching from her spot on the couch. Sherlock begins a quietly stunning piece, eyes almost closed as he pulls the bow over the strings. The acoustics in the room, and the fact that Iris is actually in the room and not a flight and a half of stairs below, are breathtaking. Iris loses herself in the music. She doesn’t hear the kettle boil, or John take it off the stove. Soon a steaming mug of tea sits in her hands, John moving over to his chair with a cup for himself, the third cooling for Sherlock on the table. 

Iris takes a sip, relishing in the warmth and glad for its comfort. She places the mug back on the table, resuming her watching of Sherlock. He slides from one piece to the next, Iris feeling her eyes growing heavier and heavier. Soon she feels herself drifting off to sleep, managing to get the pillow next to her on the arm of the couch. Sherlock continues to play, only softening in volume slightly. In the thickness of sleep, Iris feels her feet being lifted off the ground and pulled out on the length of the sofa, her shoes removed and the blanket placed snugly around her. The exhaustion and overall anxiety of the evening pull Iris down into an incredibly deep sleep. 

Iris comes to the next morning, freshly brewed coffee filling her nostrils and the gentle typing of John on his laptop filling the otherwise quiet room. She opens her eyes somewhat, letting them adjust to the light spilling in from the window. Sherlock’s back is to her, standing at the desk with the morning paper open in front of him. Iris sits up, rubbing one of her eyes with the back of her hand. John leans over to look past Sherlock at her.

“Good morning.” John smiles, Sherlock turning around to look at Iris as well.

“Good morning.” Iris responds, stifling a yawn. Sherlock returns to his paper, sipping his coffee.

“How’d you sleep?” John asks. Iris looks at her makeshift bed on the couch, suddenly feeling very foolish. 

“Just fine, thanks. And thank you for letting me crash. I’m so sorry, last night was just...” John raises his hand gently stopping Iris.

“It’s all fine, Iris, really. You’re always welcome, after everything that’s happened, you are always welcome.” John grins, glad to see Iris somewhat back to herself. “Want some coffee?” He asks, standing up and moving to the kitchen. Iris stands herself, stretching her back and turning to fold the blanket up and drape it nicely over the back of the couch. She fluffs the two pillows and sets them on top. John returns with a cup of coffee, a couple of packets of sweetener in his other hand. Iris’ quizzical expression spurs him to explain. “From the diner, noticed you take sugar in your coffee, we have milk too if you-”

“No, that’s perfect, thank you.” Iris takes the mug gratefully, opening and depositing the couple packets into the liquid. John returns to his laptop, Sherlock still engrossed in the paper. Iris sits back on the couch, enjoying the warmth of the drink. John resumes typing, Sherlock watching him over the top of the paper.

“What are you typing?” Sherlock asks after a few moments of John’s keyboard clacking.

“A blog.” John responds without looking up. Iris takes another sip, wondering what he’ll call the case of their not so warm introduction with Moriarty.

“About?” Sherlock asks further, Iris surprised he hasn’t figured out John’s blog yet.

“Us.” John says plainly. 

“You mean me.” Sherlock retorts, obviously still irked by the ‘Study in Pink’ write up.

“Why?” John asks, trying to maintain his composure.

“Well, you’re typing a lot.” The doorbell downstairs rings. Sherlock closes the paper and exits the flat. “Right, so then, what have we got?” 

Watching Sherlock go, Iris looks to John.

“I didn’t know you were expecting anyone, I can head back downstairs-” Iris puts the mug down, standing to go, when suddenly the thought of being alone stops her in her tracks. John saves her from having to ask.

“No, not company, just clients but you’re more than welcome to stay. Some of them are quite interesting.” John smirks, Iris grateful for the company. She nods and sits back down.

“If you’re sure, I don’t want to interrupt.” Iris says. John shakes his head. 

“No, you’re fine, stay.” John finishes on his laptop, shutting it with a click. He grabs a pen and notebook, flipping open to a fresh page. Sherlock opens the door for an older gentleman in a trench coat, pulling over a kitchen chair to place in the center of the room. The man sits in the chair uneasily, Sherlock standing near the fireplace, waiting for the man to tell his story. 

“My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office.” The man starts, Sherlock immediately interrupting him with a ‘Boring!’ and shuffling the man out of the flat. Iris laughs, watching John roll his eyes at what she realizes must be Sherlock’s typical antics. Soon after, the doorbell rings again, this time a middle-aged woman enters, describing that she thinks her husband may be having an affair. Without a second glance, Sherlock merely replies ‘Yes’ and shoos her out the door. 

Later in the morning, a man shows up carrying an urn, holding it close to him. Iris tries not to think about the human ash inside, instead listening to him. 

“She’s not my real aunt, she’s been replaced. I know she has. I know human ash.” He raises the urn to his face, but before he can explain further, Sherlock ushers him out the door. 

“Nothing catching your eye today Sherlock?” Iris asks from her new place at the desk. Sherlock huffs back in, annoyed at the endless supply of boring clients. 

The doorbell rings again. Three young guys enter the flat, graphic tee shirts and button ups giving Iris the ‘geekish’ sense, sitting down to explain their website.

“It explains the true meaning of comic books, ‘cause people miss a lot of the themes.” Iris feels like Sherlock is about to throw them out, when one of them hurriedly adds, “But then all the comic books started coming true!” Emitting the first ‘interesting’ from Sherlock she’s heard all day. They go into some long winded explanation of these comic book characters showing up all over the city, but whenever the guy, Chris is his name, tries to get people to listen to him, they think he’s insane. Narrowing down a list of possibilities, Sherlock heads out with the three guys, sending John off to do some research at a comic book shop.

Iris stands with them, deciding to bite the bullet and go into her flat. She needed to change and brush her teeth, make something to eat. She can’t exactly hide out in Sherlock and John’s flat all day. John lets the others leave first, turning to Iris at the door.

“Are you okay being on your own? You can come to the comic book shop with me, god knows what I’ll find there.” He chuckles, Iris shaking her head.

“No, I’m fine, I have to go back eventually, can’t stay up here for the rest of eternity. I’ll be fine.” Iris smiles, glad to feel mostly back to normal. She follows John down the stairs, watching him leave before entering her flat. 

Iris opts for a shower first, before changing into her fuzziest knit sweater, a dark forest green that compliments her dark brunette hair and blue eyes. A fresh pair of jeans and her converse shoes help push Iris further into the category of ‘normal.’ Memories of the previous night flash across her mind, stopping her in place multiple times as she tries to get ready. With some deep breathing and distractions from her laptop, Iris manages to keep them mostly at bay. 

The afternoon moves slowly towards evening, with no sign from either John or Sherlock. Iris contemplates possible scenarios for how a comic book plot could suddenly come to life, unfortunately not yielding anything substantial. Iris decides to head to bed early, taking some melatonin to hopefully keep any nightmares away. 

The next morning Iris climbs up the stairs to 221B, wanting to check in on John and Sherlock, and also a bit selfishly of not wanting to be alone. John sits in his armchair, typing away. Sherlock works in the kitchen, running some experiments Iris can’t quite figure out.

“Heya, how’s it going?” Iris calls out. John smiles up at Iris from his laptop.

“Good, yeah very good. Solved the case.” John announces, Iris moving further into the living room towards him.

“Oh? And were the comic book characters actually real?” Iris sets her hip on the side of the desk.

“Well, yes and no. It seems like it was an advertising scheme put on by the folks who wrote the comic book. It was plummeting in sales so they decided to almost make Chris go looney trying to convince everyone that the comic books were coming true.”

“Wow... just to sell some comic books...” Iris shakes her head. “The lengths people will go to for a bit of advertising.” Iris chuckles.

“Yeah, you’re telling me. I had to dress up like a ninja and fight some comic book geek down in Soho.” John laughs as Iris’ eyes go wide. “Yes, it was quite a night.” He resumes typing on his keyboard, pulling Sherlock from the kitchen. He looms over John’s shoulder, reading the screen.

“‘The Geek Interpreter?’ What’s that?” Sherlock asks, Iris smirking at the title.

“That’s the title.” John tries to ignore Sherlock as he works.

“What does it need a title for?” 

“I think that’s a great title, like ‘Study in Pink,’ it captures the essence of the case while keeping readers’ attention.” Iris adds, when John very pointedly ignores Sherlock. 

“Do people actually read your blog?” Sherlock calls back from the kitchen a moment later. John looks up and rolls his eyes. 

“Where do you think our clients come from?” John responds.

“I have a website.” Sherlock states very simply. Iris snorts thinking back to his ‘Science of Deduction’ page.

“In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco ash. Nobody’s reading your website.” John mutters pointedly at Sherlock.

“Are there really that many types? I didn’t think that was possible...” Iris wonders aloud. Sherlock tenses in the kitchen. 

“243,” is all Sherlock manages to get out, before returning to his experiments. Iris turns to the desk and sits down, flipping through the paper left from that morning. Sherlock’s phone rings, a call from Lestrade pulling both men out of the flat and to the morgue. Iris watches them leave, John telling her they’d be back soon. She reads the entire paper, moving to organize the random papers and pamphlets strewn about the table. The trip to Bart’s only takes the boys about an hour or so, John returning to his laptop as he removes his coat. Iris starts a pot of tea, trying to stay out of Sherlock’s way as he sits at his microscope with some new slides. 

Iris passes out tea, John thanking her and Sherlock not even noticing the cup next to him. Iris watches John from a comfortable distance, not wanting to invade his space but curious about his blog. John moves slightly so she can see the screen.

“‘The Speckled Blonde?’” Iris reads, John explaining a corpse was found with no cause of death other than a great deal of speckles all across her body. Sherlock smacks his palm on the table in the kitchen, pulling both John and Iris’ attention.

“Oh, for God’s sakes! ‘The Speckled Blonde?’” Sherlock huffs, flouncing off to his bedroom down the hall. John turns to Iris who just shrugs.

“I think it’s a good title, right to the point.” 

Iris spends the rest of the afternoon in Sherlock and Johns’ flat, surprised when two young primary school aged girls come knocking on the door. They saw John’s blog and thought Sherlock could help them find their grandfather.

“They wouldn’t let us see Granddad when he was dead. Is that ‘cause he’d gone to heaven?” The younger of the two girls asked, Iris wondering Sherlock’s take on spirituality, hoping he’s not going to squash the feelings of these children in front of him.

“People don’t really go to heaven when they die, they’re taken to a special room and burned.” Sherlock responds flatly.

“Sherlock!” Iris scolds him, John simply shaking his head. The two girls look scared, turning to one another. John helps them out the door, ignoring Sherlock when he returns. Sensing a bit of tension between them, Iris heads back to her flat, hoping to call Sam for a bit of catch up on the phone. 

Iris gives him the Reader’s Digest version of just what happened with the whole Moriarty business, not wanting him to panic, but, Sam being Sam, he does anyway. 

“Iris, you’ve haven’t even been there a month and you’ve already been knocked unconscious and kidnapped on multiple occasions. And still no word from your PI. Are you sure you made the right choice? I think you should come back until you have something more concrete, I don’t like you being this far away and I can’t be there to help.” 

Iris closes her eyes, listening. While she would love to hop on a flight back to New York and hug Sam, recent events have solidified her choice rather than made her question it. Yes, this wasn’t exactly what she was expecting, and she really does not enjoy being knocked out or kidnapped, but her life felt so stagnant before meeting Sherlock and John. She felt like she was just going about the motions of life, not really living or doing anything important. She actually feels useful helping these two fascinating men out, and while her PI doesn’t have anything concrete yet, he assures her that there would be something soon. She just has to be patient. And if being patient means passing the time with Sherlock and John, that is more than okay with Iris. 

After a lot of reassurance and explanation, Iris seems to have calmed Sam down, or at least quieted his outright dislike of the current situation. With a promise to text him later, Iris hangs up the phone. She opens her laptop to check the news, seeing multiple articles talking about a plane crash in Dusseldorf the day before. Not knowing where Dusseldorf is, Iris does some internet exploring, wondering why they suspected it was a terrorist bomb. 

Iris spends the evening with Mrs. Hudson, playing cards and helping her with dinner. The flat upstairs stays quiet for the rest of the evening, and into the early afternoon the next day. Iris hears them return, poking her head out of her flat to say hello.

“Another case today?” Iris calls out. John stops at the base of the stairs with a smile.

“You know that plane crash the other day?” Iris nods her head. “It seems there’s a man who was supposed to be on that plane but he ended up dead in the boot of a car in London. He had his passport stamped and even a napkin from the airline in his pocket. Sherlock has no idea what happened.” John adds that last bit quietly, trying to avoid Sherlock from hearing upstairs. Iris’ face illustrates the shock at Sherlock being baffled, laughing later that day when she reads John’s blog to see the title ‘Sherlock Holmes Baffled’ right at the top. Sherlock must have been pleased with that one, Iris thought sarcastically to herself. The count on John’s blog is almost at 2,000, Iris impressed by the sudden popularity of Sherlock over the past week or so. 

The next morning, Iris knocks on the door upstairs, newspaper proudly open in her hands. Sherlock opens the door, only to see a giant front page photo of himself with his coat collar upturned, trying to hide behind a large deerstalker hat staring back at him. Iris giggles and moves the paper out of his face, revealing her behind it.

“Oh, is this the flat of the famous Sherlock Holmes? That detective in the deerstalker? Oh, please, can I meet him?” Iris teases, Sherlock rolling his eyes but stepping aside for her to enter. John sits at the desk laughing at Iris. She folds the paper up, photo of Sherlock and John exiting a crime scene on top, placing it on the desk. 

“You two have got quite the following now it seems, and they love you in that hat Sherlock.” Iris calls to Sherlock who only replies by angrily starting his blowtorch to work on something in the kitchen. “Well, I just came by having seen the paper, had to catch my glimpse of the big celebrity. I’ll leave you to it.” Iris turns to go out the door, turning back remembering. “Oh, I saw Mrs. Hudson has a handful of board games in her flat, we were playing cards and Yahtzee the other night, but I thought it might be fun to test the big fancy detective and doctor with a game of Cluedo?”

John’s eyes widen at the thought. “Now that could either go great or spectacularly not great...” Iris’ pleading look wins him over. “Fine, but if he rips the board in half you’re buying Mrs. Hudson a new set.”

“Deal! Later tonight? If you haven’t been called to ward off anymore comic book characters.” Iris smiles.

John agrees, and Iris finds herself back upstairs that evening sitting in between Sherlock and John. Iris sits in the middle of the couch, board game in front of her, with Sherlock in the desk chair to her right and John in one of the kitchen chairs to her left. After a quick overview of the rules, Iris shuffles the three decks of cards and allows each of them to grab one to put in the envelope in the center of the deck.

“Now, John, how about you be Colonel Mustard, and I’ll take Mrs. Peacock. Sherlock, how does Professor Plum sound?” Iris holds out the small purple token.

“Why does John get to be a Colonel and I’m stuck as a professor?”

“Well it’s either professor or Reverend... Or you could play as one of the women, you choose.” Iris offers the pieces. Sherlock ponders, Iris laughing to herself at how serious he’s taking this new game, before selecting the purple token of Professor Plum. 

“Iris, why don’t you start us off?” John hands her the dice. She rolls and moves the appropriate spaces. It takes a turn or two for everyone to get close enough to actually enter a room and make a suggestion, Iris being the first to do so. She checks her cards closely. 

“Alright, I think it was Mrs. White, in the Billiard Room, with the Dagger. Can anyone disprove that?” John nods right away, showing her one of his cards, Iris checking off her notecard.

John is the next to enter a room, landing in the Dining Room. He checks his cards and makes a suggestion, Sherlock unable to refute it, but Iris showing him one of her cards to disprove it. 

They continue this way for a while, Iris and John scribbling more and more in their notecards, Sherlock staying mostly silent, except when making a suggestion. Iris thinks she has an idea of what three cards might be in the envelope, when it’s Sherlock’s turn to make a suggestion. He sits for a moment or two longer than usual, Iris watching his brain work. So far things have been civil, he seems to be following the rules, going along just fine... But something in his eyes gives Iris the feeling that things are about to take a turn for the worst.

“I know the answer.” Sherlock states, setting down his cards and steepling his fingers under his chin. John snorts.

“Of course you do, I barely have anything marked off on my sheet and you’ve bloody solved it. Okay, out with it.” John retorts. Iris reaches for the envelope, not opening it yet.

“It’s Miss Scarlett in the Hall, by her own hand.” Sherlock states plainly. Iris doesn’t open the envelope.

“Sherlock... It’s not possible for the victim to have done it, you need a weapon.” Iris explains.

“Nope, she did it herself, in the Hall, that’s the only explanation.”

“Sherlock, there are three cards in the envelope, one of them is a weapon... How-” John, exasperated, tosses his cards down on the table. Iris senses the anger rising from John, and decides to open the envelope. She pulls out the first card, and then the second.

“You were right about Miss Scarlett in the Hall, but...” Iris opens the envelope looking for the third card. She turns it upside down, checks the first two cards to see if the third one stuck somewhere, but looks up at John. “He’s right. There’s no weapon in the envelope, I don’t-”

“See, plain as the nose on your face. I was right.” Sherlock’s smug expression is about to be wiped off his face by John, who Iris suddenly realizes is _very_ competitive. Trying to quell the tension she starts to gather the cards up and separate them out.

“Well, that was just an error in setting the game up, probably my bad, look we can just try again... You know, make sure there are three cards? John?” Iris looks over at John, his eyes still on Sherlock, who wears the widest grin across his face. “Okay, well it’s getting late and I’m just going to pack this up and head back downstairs, maybe we can try again another time... Or never, who knows.” Iris quickly packs up the box, Sherlock being distracted by a text on his phone, John still sitting there angrily. 

Not wanting to push John’s poor losing side, Iris slides the lid on the box and heads for the door, deciding whether or not to put a hand on John’s shoulder as she passes. She decides to, patting it softly. “It’s just a game, John. And he’s Sherlock, we knew it could end badly, right?” John exhales with a small laugh, looking up at her, not saying anything but rising to go to the kitchen. 

A few hours later, back downstairs in her flat, Iris is about to go to bed when she hears shouting above her. It being nearly midnight, Iris wonders what the commotion could be, so she heads up the stairs cautiously. She reaches the door, opening it just as Sherlock raises his knife and stabs through the Cluedo board into the wall next to the mirror, John shouting and tossing the cards in his hands at Sherlock. Better to just leave them rather than interrupt, Iris quietly closes the door and retreats back downstairs. Mentally, she reminds herself to never bring up board games with those two ever again. 

Mrs. Hudson invites Iris to go food shopping with her the next morning, Iris gladly going along, relaying to her the eventful evening of Cluedo. Mrs. Hudson laughs like it’s the funniest thing, but also calculates how much another hole in her wall will cost them. They return with a couple of bags for Sherlock and John, Mrs. Hudson admitting she likes making sure they have food since neither seems very keen on shopping. The boys must be in their rooms or out because Iris doesn’t see them when they enter the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson tuts at the state of the kitchen, which really should be considered a lab given all of the experiments and equipment Sherlock has strewn all over the place. Mrs. Hudson opens the fridge before Iris can stop her, figuring there’s probably another head or severed limb waiting. No head thankfully, but a bag of thumbs prompts her to swiftly close the fridge. 

“Yeah, last time I saw John open that fridge there was a severed head in there. Thumbs do not surprise me.” Iris laughs, Mrs. Hudson’s nose crinkling with the thought. Iris hears footsteps up the staircase, turning to see a middle-aged man, short brown hair and very out of breath, enter. Iris steps protectively in front of Mrs. Hudson, unsure of what the man wants. He mutters something about the door being open, before collapsing on the floor in front of them. Iris rolls her eyes and turns to Mrs. Hudson. She simply shakes her head.

“Boys! You’ve got another one!” Mrs. Hudson leans down to gingerly touch the man’s shoulder, Iris hearing Sherlock’s bedroom door open, followed by John’s. Iris nearly drops the bag of groceries in her hand when she sees Sherlock is not dressed but rather draped in one of his bedsheets. Iris looks at her watch seeing it’s only nine in the morning, but Sherlock looks like he was dead asleep. 

Sherlock yawns and scratches the back of his head, meeting John in the kitchen. John looks to the ceiling in a moment of trying to gather the strength to not yell at Sherlock before they both look down at the unconscious client on the floor. They manage to get the man up off the floor and plopped into a chair in the middle of the living room. Finally awake again, the man looks terribly frightened.

“Tell us from the start, don’t be boring.” Sherlock instructs, flopping down in his leather chair, white sheet dragging behind him. John perches himself on the couch behind the man, Iris leaning in the doorway near him. The man, Phil he manages to get out, goes into a long-winded explanation of how he thinks he’s a suspect in a murder.

Phil was trying to start his car next to this big clearing when he noticed a hiker out near the riverbank watching him. He checks under the hood, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Phil goes to the wheel again, and when he turns the key, the engine backfires loudly. The noise, startling him, causes Phil to get back out of the car, and as he’s walking to the engine he looks out at the hiker on the riverbank, who now lays face down in the water. He rushes over to find the hiker dead, and Phil is now convinced that he killed the poor man. 

Sherlock groans, leaning his head back. “Boring. John, you go to the crime scene, see what’s there, I’m going back to bed.” Sherlock rises, wrapping his sheet firmly around him, and walking back to his room. John stands, tries to stop him, but decides against it as he sees the sheet again. Phil turns around to John, hopeful that maybe he can help. John pulls out his phone to dial Lestrade. 

John exits quickly, leaving Phil behind. Iris goes to finish putting away the groceries she and Mrs. Hudson bought, trying to avoid an awkward conversation with Phil. She does offer to make them some tea, which he accepts gratefully. Phil moves over the John’s more comfortable chair, Iris taking up Sherlock’s seeing as how he’s back asleep in his room. About a half an hour passes before Iris hears Sherlock stirring in his room, and out he pops, still in his sheet, carrying his laptop mid-conversation with John. 

“Look, this is a six. There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, we agreed.” Sherlock sits at the desk, readjusting the camera up so he can clearly see the screen, Iris noticing John on the other end. The doorbell downstairs rings, Iris standing to go see who it is. She starts to climb down the stairs, the doorbell ringing yet again, impatient whoever it is. Sherlock shouts “Shut up!” at the sound and Iris hurries down the last few steps to get to the door. She opens it to two very well-dressed men. 

“We’re here to collect Mr. Holmes. He has an appointment.” The first man says.

“An appointment?” Iris asks cautiously. They seem like professional men of some kind, maybe they work for Mycroft? 

“Yes, we’re on a bit of a timetable so if you would please let us in we will collect him and be on our way.” 

Iris decides to show the men up, hoping Sherlock will know who they are and whether or not he actually has an appointment. He sure isn't dressed for one... 

“Sherlock.” Iris calls to get his attention, the two men stepping around her and into the flat. Sherlock ignores them, still focused on the screen in front of him.

“His room’s through the back, get him some clothes.” The first man instructs the other, who disappears down the hallway to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock turns at that but doesn’t seem to recognize the two men, and Iris kicks herself for letting them in now. 

“Who the hell are you?” Sherlock asks.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, you’re coming with us.” The man shuts Sherlock’s laptop with a click, Iris hearing John through the screen asking what’s happening.

The man from Sherlock’s room reemerges, clothes folded neatly in his hand, shoes on top, walking over the Sherlock who is still wrapped in his sheet. The suited man places the clothes on the laptop in front of Sherlock, who simply rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“Please, Mr. Holmes, where you’re going you’ll want to be dressed.”

Sherlock turns in his chair to look the man up and down, Iris wondering how many deductions he’s made in the three seconds he’s looked at him.

“I know exactly where I’m going.” Sherlock says with a smirk. Iris wonders if they do actually work for Mycroft. Maybe he needs Sherlock for something and has resorted to bodyguards to come and haul him in? Iris does not get any of her questions answered, instead, Sherlock merely stands up from his seat, and walks out the door. Iris looks at the two men, bewilderment on their faces while Iris just shrugs her shoulders. 

“May as well bring the clothes, if it’s Mycroft he’s seeing maybe his brother can get him dressed, who knows.” The men pick up the clothes and follow Sherlock out the door. Iris watches from the window as Sherlock gets into a black car, his sheet almost getting stuck in the door as he shuts it. Iris laughs and then realizes that the client, Phil, is still in the room.

“Ah, Phil, sorry about that, looks like Sherlock has an appointment. I’m honestly not sure when he’ll return, so if you want to leave your number I will have them call you whenever they’re back.” Phil sits like he’s just seen a ghost, Iris wondering what Sherlock said to him while she was answering the door. He stands from the chair, taking the pen and notepad offered by Iris and jotting his info down. Soon Phil is gone, leaving Iris alone and wondering just where Sherlock was whisked off to. 

It’s not for nearly three hours that Iris gets any sort of answer, but it starts with the front door banging open and John calling out her name. She rushes out of her flat in time to see John and Lestrade carrying a mostly unconscious Sherlock through the door. Iris hurries over and takes the side Lestrade had so he can shut the door behind them.

“Oh my god, what happened? Is he okay?” Iris asks, John leading them up the stairs. Lestrade helps with Sherlock’s feet as they flop about lazily.

“Looks like he was jabbed with something, Irene Adler did it, let’s just get him in bed.” John huffs through gritted teeth, Sherlock’s weight taking all three of them to get him up the stairs. They manage down the hall, Iris letting go briefly to pull back the covers on Sherlock’s bed, realizing Mrs. Hudson must have remade it after they left. John lowers Sherlock onto the bed, Iris grabbing his feet to help him in. Sherlock starts to mumble in his semi-unconscious state, John trying to tuck the sheets around him so he doesn’t fall out. 

Lestrade laughs from the doorway when Sherlock starts describing ducks and geese and the differences in anatomy in a very silly tone. It mostly dissolves into gibberish, even Iris chuckling a bit through her worry. Lestrade pulls out his phone and starts to take a video, Iris swatting him on the arm and pulling him and John down the hall when she sees Sherlock’s settled.

Lestrade leaves now that Sherlock is back safely, chuckling down the stairs as he replays the video. Iris tries to not roll her eyes, her curiosity taking precedent. John sits down in his chair, and Iris perches on the arm of Sherlock’s.

“Okay, spill, what happened? Why is Sherlock all dopey? Was the appointment with Mycroft?” 

“Mycroft was there, yes, but we were definitely not at his office...” John trails off.

“Well? Where were you?” Iris can’t stand not knowing, John seeming to relish in his storytelling.

“Buckingham Palace.” John states with a laugh, Iris’ jaw dropping to the floor.

“What?! You met Mycroft at Buckingham Palace?!” Iris can’t believe it. So those men from before work for the Queen of England? “Oh my god, did you meet the Queen?” John shakes his head.

“No, no, though Mycroft’s entrance into the parlor we were in could hold up against her quite nicely.” John smirks. “Someone close to the Queen has gotten herself mixed up with this woman...” John drifts off.

“Irene Adler?” Iris recalls the name John said before.

“Yes, she’s a dominatrix.” John tentatively stops, unsure how else to explain it. “And she has some... compromising photos... And the Royal Family would like them back.”

“Yikes, a dominatrix? Well, whatever floats your boat I guess... Is it for money? Some sort of ruse to get something from them?” Iris asks. John shakes his head.

“No, she doesn’t want anything, just wanted to tell them she had the photos for her ‘insurance.’”

Iris contemplates this, wanting to know more. “Well, so you went and met her, this dominatrix? What was that like?” Iris teases, causing John to blush.

“Uh, yeah, that was... interesting. Sherlock had this whole plan of pretending to be attacked on the street, made me punch him in the face actually.” John admits.

“Ah, took out some of that Cluedo anger on him, didn’t you?” Iris jabs playfully.

“Yeah, but she saw right through it, said she wouldn’t give up the photos for anything. Sherlock managed to find her camera phone, that had everything on it, her ‘lifeline’ she called it. But before Lestrade could get there, Ms. Adler drugged Sherlock with something, and slipped out her bathroom window.”

“Wow. She sounds quite interesting...” Iris tries to imagine what Irene might look like, when John looks at his watch, clicking his tongue at the time. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I had a date tonight, but with Sherlock, I think I’m just going to reschedule.”

“I can stay with him if you’d like, no sense in ruining your plans just because of Sherlock.” Iris offers, John shaking his head.

“No, thanks though. I don’t like not knowing what she gave him, and he could have some adverse reaction to it. My date won’t mind.” John rises to head up to his room, dialing his phone as he climbs the stairs. 

Iris goes to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, quietly bringing it down the hallway to Sherlock’s room, glad to see him quietly sleeping. She sets the glass on his bedside table and shuts the door behind her. John is back in the living room when she returns. 

“Tell me more about this dominatrix, I’ve never met someone who’s profession it is to beat people up in the bedroom.” Iris asks, settling into Sherlock’s chair across from John.

“She did say that ‘brainy is the new sexy,’ and I think I saw Sherlock’s brain short-circuit for the first time in his life.” Iris’ eyes go wide, her suddenly realizing she’s never seen Sherlock date or have any sort of partner.

“Do you think he likes her? I mean, do you think maybe he would consider seeing her in a not-case-related outing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sherlock with anyone... have you?”

John shakes his head, looking towards the unlit fireplace. “No, the only thing he’s told me is that he considers himself married to his work. I don’t know if he’s had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend.”

“What about you? I know you’ve been going out with Sarah-”

“Ah, actually yeah that one ended, I’m seeing Ashley now.”

“Oh, sorry to hear about Sarah... but you and Sherlock, you aren’t...” Iris doesn’t quite know how to ask what she’s asking, but she does wonder with them living together, working so closely... 

“I don’t know about Sherlock, but I am definitely, not gay.” John says pointedly. Iris nods, pleased that’s cleared up. 

“Great, good to know. Mrs. Hudson seems convinced otherwise, but I’m glad I asked.” John rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think she’ll believe I’m straight until she sees me on my wedding day marrying a woman.” John jokes, making Iris smile. John looks off in thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone baffle Sherlock like she did. I mean the woman came into the room stark naked, not a piece of clothing on her. I managed to get her covered up in Sherlock’s coat but...”

“Maybe he was uncomfortable? I mean someone you’ve never met, knowing about her bedroom activities, and she just walks in without any clothes? That’d stop me too, even if I wasn’t bisexual.” Iris adds off the cuff, looking to John. John just grins.

“My sister Harry’s gay, she’d be drooling on the floor if she saw Irene Adler like that, I’m sure of it.”

“I wonder why she isn’t using the information she has as leverage... She doesn’t want money or favor in any way?” Iris asks, John shaking his head.

“No, none of it. She just wanted them to be aware she has them, her ‘insurance.’” He quotes again. Iris fiddles with her necklace, suddenly remembering. 

“Oh, Paul left his number on the pad on the desk earlier. I wasn’t sure when Sherlock was swept away if you had figured out his case or not, told him you’d call eventually.” 

“Thanks, I think Sherlock and Ms. Adler pieced it together, though I’m not quite sure where that landed. We were interrupted before an actual conclusion.”

“Interrupted?” 

“Americans, probably CIA my guess. They were after the phone as well, nearly shot us trying to get Sherlock to open her safe.”

Iris’ eyes go wide, wondering what American operatives would want with an English dominatrix.

“What else she has on that phone...”

“Yeah, I'd like to know as well. But I doubt we’ll hear anytime soon, as it’s still in her possession. Along with Sherlock’s coat, come to think of it.” John chuckles, standing up to make some tea. He stops and turns back to stand at the back of his chair.

“Also, if you ever hear one of us say, ‘Vatican Cameos,’ be prepared.”

“For what?”

“For anything. Duck, run, man your battle stations. It’s a very handy phrase when you don’t want the enemy to know what your next move is.” John furthers before turning back to the kitchen. Iris is glad to be in the loop, but still wary as to why she might need to know this. 

The rest of the evening passes calmly with Sherlock not stirring until the sun sets, Iris and John hearing a loud _thud_ from his room. They open the door to find Sherlock on the floor, sprawled out with his face in the carpet. John stifles a laugh.

“You okay?” Iris asks, kneeling down to Sherlock’s level on the floor. Sherlock sits up dazedly, looking around his room.

“How did I get here?” His words slur together as he squints both eyes nearly closed.

“Well, I don’t suppose you remember much, you weren’t making a lot of sense.” John explains, still at the door. “Oh, I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone.” 

“Where is she?” Sherlock asks, getting to his feet and spinning in a lopsided circle. Iris stands, asking who he’s looking for.

“The woman, that woman.” Sherlock shouts, still dazed.

“What woman?” John asks, Iris realizing he means Irene.

“The woman! The woman woman!” Sherlock repeats hurriedly. 

“Irene Adler?” Iris offers.

“She got away, no one saw her.” John explains, Sherlock closing his eyes and opening them again, looking around. He moves to the window trying to look out into the night. Iris moves one of the curtains aside for him. “She wasn’t here, Sherlock.” John furthers. Sherlock turns and crumples back to the floor, Iris grabbing his arm to slow his fall slightly. 

“What are you... What? No, no Sherlock. Back to bed.” Iris goes for one arm, John grabbing the other, as they haul Sherlock off the floor and back into his bed. Sherlock lands with a _thump_ facedown onto his pillow, Iris trying to throw a sheet over him, finding it stuck under his weight. She wrangles it out and tucks it around Sherlock awkwardly. “You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.” John calls out, Iris finishing getting the other blanket over Sherlock. 

“Of course I’ll be fine, I am fine. I’m absolutely fine.” Sherlock says muffled.

“Yes, you’re great. Now, I’ll be next door if you need me.” John explains, Iris standing next to him in the doorway.

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock asks quizzically. John rolls his eyes.

“No reason at all.” John closes the door behind him and Iris, moving out to the living room. John falls into his armchair, reaching for a book on the side table. Iris stands in the doorway, looking back down the hall at Sherlock’s door.

“Do you really think he’ll be okay?” 

“I’m not sure, but she said it would wear off eventually. I just hope it’s sooner rather than later.” John says without looking up. Iris checks her watch, noting the late hour.

“Well, I’m going to head downstairs. Call me if you need anything, and I’ll check by in the morning.” 

“Sounds good, thanks Iris.” John looks up with a smile, Iris turning to head to her flat. 

The next morning Iris walks upstairs hearing the general commotion of John and Sherlock both being awake, Iris noticing Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen when she knocks on the open door.

“Morning, how’re you feeling Sherlock?” Iris asks cheerfully. Sherlock looks up from his place at the desk, breakfast in front of him and paper in hand. Iris notices for the first time the small cut under Sherlock’s left eye, where John must have punched him the day before. John sits directly next to Sherlock rather than across, a great deal of papers and John’s laptop cluttering the other side of the desk. Mrs. Hudson emerges from the kitchen with a smile, giving Iris a little wave.

“Much better, thank you.” Sherlock continues reading his paper. The doorbell rings downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson leaves to answer it.

“Glad that’s out of your system, you were quite loopy last night.” Iris teases, leaning on the doorframe and tugging her plaid cardigan closer. Mrs. Hudson comes scurrying up the stairs, Iris turning mid-sentence as Mycroft reaches the top of the stairs behind her. Iris nearly jumps up at his entrance, moving fully into the flat so he can pass by. Sherlock rolls his eyes in utter annoyance at Mycroft’s arrival, John staying focused on his breakfast, his back mostly to the slender man in his pinstripe suit and maroon tie. 

“Good morning all, just here to check on Sherlock’s progress with-” Mycroft starts, taking his umbrella off his arm and shifting his weight onto it like a cane. He stands in between Sherlock and John’s armchairs, looking somewhat out of place. His eyes fall to Iris and she squirms under his stare as he stops talking.

“She’s fine Mycroft, I told her about Irene Adler. You can trust her.” John relays, turning to look at Iris, winking his eye at her. Iris manages to hide her smile behind a scratch of her nose, trying to give Mycroft her best ‘you can trust me in this conversation’ look. It must work because Mycroft simply turns his attention from her to Sherlock.

“The photographs are perfectly safe.” Sherlock says while flipping pages in the paper.

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker?” Mycroft retorts, Iris choosing to sit on the edge of the sofa and out of the way.

“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants... protection, for some reason... I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?” Sherlock asks, Iris glad none of them were shot by those Americans also looking for Irene’s phone.

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.” Mycroft offers out one hand for emphasis, the other still clutched to the wooden handle of his umbrella.

“She’d applaud your choice of words.” Sherlock toys. Iris smiles behind her hand, noticing John doing the same. “You see how this works, that camera phone is her get-out-of-jail-free card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft.” Sherlock teases.

“Though not the way she treats royalty.” John adds, causing Mycroft’s face to contort in a pained look, glancing over to Iris. Unable to hide her giggle this time, Iris simply shrugs her shoulders. His pointed stare spurs her to speak.

“As far as anyone’s concerned, I know nothing, Mycroft. I’m just here for the company since I dislike being alone after Jim Moriarty kidnapped us. Seriously, I know nothing.” Iris tries to play off the whole being kidnapped bit, but due to Mycroft’s lack of humor, it falls a bit flat. Any further dialogue is interrupted by a very loud woman’s moan ringing out near the general vicinity of Sherlock. All heads in the room turn to Sherlock, Iris wondering why it almost sounded like an alert from his phone?

“What was that?” John asks, looking to Sherlock.

“Text.” He blurts out, setting his paper down and rising from the desk. His scarlet dressing gown flows in the breeze, drawstrings trailing behind him.

“But what was that noise?” John asks, watching Sherlock move to his coat draped over the back of his armchair. He pulls out his phone, checking it as he speaks to Mycroft.

“Did you know there were other people after her, too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there? CIA trained killers, I think, excellent guess.” Sherlock returns to the desk.

“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft.” John adds, taking another bite of his breakfast.

Mrs. Hudson emerges from the kitchen with a plate in her hand, shaking her head.

“It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes!” She scolds, placing the plate next to Sherlock and putting her hand on his shoulder. Iris smiles at that, wondering if she might find a true family of her own soon.

“Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson!” Mycroft bites, causing an extreme reaction from everyone in the room. Sherlock shouts from over his paper, “Mycroft!” while John turns with a murderous look in his eyes, a threatening “Oi!” as he glares the lean man down. Iris jumps up from her place on the couch, standing behind Mrs. Hudson with a protective arm around her shoulders. Mycroft, realizing his mistake, looks around the room before making eye contact with Mrs. Hudson.

“Apologies.” He manages out with a smile. Mrs. Hudson nods, a small ‘thank you,’ as she returns to the kitchen. 

“Though do, in fact, shut up.” Sherlock teases, Iris swatting him on the shoulder lightly. That same noise from before, a very sexual moan, rings out again. 

“Oh, it’s a bit rude, that noise, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson turns back, appalled by the sound. Sherlock doesn’t respond so she returns to the kitchen. Sherlock picks up his phone, turning it away from Iris who’s still standing over his shoulder. Iris returns to her perch on the couch’s armrest.

“There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do, as far as I can see.” Sherlock explains, picking up his newspaper again.

“I can put maximum surveillance on her.” Mycroft offers.

“Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is _TheWhipHand_.” Sherlock offers, Iris pulling out her phone and deciding to follow her and learn more about who this woman is. 

“Yes, most amusing.” Mycroft says, pained. His phone rings, Mycroft pulling it out of his pocket. “Excuse me. Hello?” He answers, moving to the hallway.

“Why does your phone make that noise?” John asks, pulling Iris from her spot. 

“What noise?” Sherlock asks casually. Playing dumb does not look good on him Iris decides. 

“Oh come on Sherlock, that noise, the one it just made.” Iris asks, moving to sit in the chair opposite Sherlock at the desk. 

“It’s a text alert, it means I’ve got a text.” Sherlock tries to play it off, but neither John nor Iris are backing down. 

“Hmm. Your texts don’t usually make that noise.” John counters.

“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently as a joke, personalized their text alert noise.” Sherlock tries to seem annoyed, but Iris can tell he’s intrigued.

“Ah, so every time they text you-” The ringtone cuts John off perfectly. 

“It would seem so.” Sherlock responds. 

“Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life, it’s-” Mrs. Hudson calls from the kitchen, Sherlock putting his phone down on the table.

Iris looks to John, who still doesn’t seem convinced. 

“See, I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?” John ponders. Sherlock raises the paper in his hand so it covers his face, preventing them from reading any incriminating facial expressions.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions.” Sherlock grumbles from behind the paper. John turns to Iris, her eyes widening in realization.

“I bet it’s Irene Adler, she had his coat didn’t she?” Iris figures, John nodding as he takes a bite of his toast, brushing a few crumbs off his striped jumper. 

“I’m not stupid, you know.” John says to the back of Sherlock’s newspaper.

“Where do you get that idea?” Sherlock asks. Iris notices Mycroft back in the doorway, finishing up his phone call.

“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” Mycroft hangs up, Sherlock lowering his newspaper to glare at his brother. 

“What else does she have?” Sherlock asks quite deliberately. Mycroft doesn’t respond so Sherlock pushes further. “Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more.” Sherlock rises from the desk, coming to meet his brother face to face. “Much more. Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this.” Mycroft says in the most calmly delivered threat Iris has ever heard. Sherlock doesn’t back down.

“Oh, will I?” Sherlock asks, John and Iris making eye contact.

“Yes, Sherlock. You will.” Mycroft threatens. The staring contest seems to end in Mycroft’s favor, Sherlock moving towards his chair and reaching for his violin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.” Mycroft sighs.

“Do give her my love.” Sherlock places his violin under his chin and begins to play ‘God Save the Queen,’ Iris’ giggling bursting out from whatever control she had in listening to the two Holmes brothers argue. John joins in the laughter, Mycroft merely rolling his eyes and leaving the flat. Sherlock follows him out the door, playing at Mycroft until he’s downstairs. Sherlock returns to the window, finishing the tune. 

“I can’t believe he just called the Queen of England his ‘very old friend.’ That’s like me saying I regularly have lunch at the White House and that fact just does not compute in my brain.” Iris sits in Sherlock’s vacated seat at the desk and steals an uneaten piece of toast as she speaks. John finishes his plate, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“I want to know what else Irene Adler has on that phone of hers.” He says as he rises from his seat to bring his dish to the kitchen. 

~.~

A couple of months pass and no word from or about Irene Adler, other than the handful of moaning text alerts Iris hears when up in the boys’ flat. Iris’ visa finally goes through, giving her a solid three-year stay in the country, meaning she can actually start working. She’s grateful that the transition to the lab at Bart’s is smooth, her new boss is kind and the work extremely similar to the experiments back in New York. The job gets her out of the house and out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat watching endless amounts of television, and starts a nice bit of cash flow to help pay the rent and food without tanking her savings. 

Everything seems to be going smoothly, her PI being the only thing dragging. Call after call gets forwarded to messaging services, Iris unable to even reach Alfred for nearly three weeks. And only because she catches him leaving his office one afternoon, determined to meet with him face to face. He sheepishly apologizes for the lack of communication, promising her that he’ll call her as soon as he can. He says things have just gotten crazy at his office, and he hurries off leaving Iris dissatisfied. 

Work becomes a welcome distraction, along with keeping up with John and Sherlock. Iris even gets to spend some time getting to know Molly, the two regularly having lunch in the cafeteria together. Molly describes what it was like to date Jim, well fake IT Jim not Jim Moriarty, Iris baffled at the lunacy of this crazy man. They bond over their infatuation with Sherlock, Iris realizing hers is much more platonic than the major crush Molly has on him, though Iris never points it out. The two go out for drinks after work, sometimes roping Lestrade in when he’s had a particularly rough day being outsmarted by Sherlock. Iris begins to find a nice rhythm, enjoying her small circle of friends, grateful to have a place to belong for the holidays. 

Iris realizes about a week before that people in the UK don’t actually celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday she’s always spent with friends and tons of food. After talking with Mrs. Hudson, the two decide to cook up a special dinner, actually buying a turkey and Iris looking up how to make stuffing from scratch (when she’s only ever cooked it from a box before). 

John and Sherlock were away in Ireland and didn’t return until late that afternoon, finding Mrs. Hudson and Iris laying out a huge spread of food on the recently cleaned (and severely disinfected) kitchen table. John’s grateful for the food, Sherlock still unsure why they’re celebrating a very American holiday, Iris just glad to spend the day with friends. The four have a nice meal chatting away into the night, Mrs. Hudson getting a bit loopy off the wine. Iris helps her back to her flat, video chatting with Sam as she virtually joins their festivities back in New York City. 

December passes mostly the same, Iris excited for the snow and winter decorations all over the shops and buildings. Even her coworkers deck out the lab, a little paper Santa Clause (or Father Christmas as they tell her) sits proudly on her desktop computer.

Baker Street, covered in snow, sits beautifully adorned with twinkling lights and holly both inside and out. Iris helps John bring up a small tree, Mrs. Hudson unearthing an old box of decorations to hang. The upstairs flat looks rather festive, and just in time for their little Christmas gathering. John has another new girlfriend, his third or fourth if Iris tries to keep track, along with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson joining Iris as they listen to Sherlock play a Christmas song on his violin.

The music is lovely, Iris glad to hear him play in person, rather than when she’s in her flat downstairs. The tune ends, Mrs. Hudson tipsily laughing as she claps from Sherlock’s chair. 

“Lovely, Sherlock. That was lovely.” Mrs. Hudson remarks, Iris sipping her hot chocolate from her spot at the desk. John returns from the kitchen with a beer for himself and a cup of tea for Mrs. Hudson, passing Lestrade who leans comfortably against the bookcase by the kitchen. 

“Marvelous.” John adds as he hands Mrs. Hudson her cup. 

“I wish you could have worn the antlers.” Mrs. Hudson laughs, Iris nodding in agreeance. She and Mrs. Hudson found a few pairs of silly holiday headbands at the market and brought them back in hopes of getting the boys into them, but neither seemed very keen on the sparkly Christmas trees or large reindeer antlers. Sans any headgear, Iris picked out her favorite turtleneck in a lovely shade of forest green, perfect for the holiday celebration. She paired it with her cream-colored pleated skirt, Mrs. Hudson having helped her locate a steamer earlier that day. With or without one of the fun headbands, Iris still felt very festive.

“Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock responds, Iris glad to see him being nice. John’s date brings over a small platter of hors d’oeures, offering them to Sherlock. “Oh, no thank you, Sarah.” Sherlock casually brushes her off with a wave of his violin bow. Iris realizes that’s not this woman’s name and John quickly tries to cover.

“Ah, no no, he’s not good with names.” John tries to explain. Sherlock cuts him off.

“No, no I can get this. No, Sarah was the doctor, and then there was the one with the spots and then the one with the nose and then... who was after the boring teacher?” Sherlock asks, Iris nearly smacking her palm to her forehead.

“Sherlock...” Iris hangs her head, shaking it. 

“Nobody.” The woman responds, crossing her arms, upset. 

“Jeanette! Ah, process of elimination.” Sherlock exclaims, glad to have figured it out. 

Footsteps up the stairs pull Iris’ focus, noticing at the same time as Sherlock, Molly’s entrance. Her hair is done up with a sparkling bow on one side, her make-up look much more than her usual day-to-day, and her arms full of bags of presents spilling over her long coat. Iris is the only one to hear Sherlock’s “Oh, dear Lord.” Iris whacks his elbow lightly from her seat at the desk.

“Be nice Sherlock.” Iris warns. Sherlock turns away from the general greetings and hellos, Iris standing from her seat to take some of the bags from Molly’s hands, hugging her with the other arm. 

Iris hears Sherlock behind her, “Everybody saying hello to each other, how wonderful!” as he tries to avoid the social interaction. Iris ignores him, watching as Molly removes her coat to reveal a very slinky, quite gorgeous dress. Everyone reacts in pleasant surprise, Iris taking her coat from Molly.

“Wow, Molly, you look incredible!” Iris compliments, Molly blushing from all the attention, eyes looking to Sherlock who still hasn’t made eye contact with her yet.

“So we’re having Christmas drinkies, then?” Molly asks, trying to get Sherlock’s attention. He’s quite focused on getting his violin back into its case.

“No stopping them, apparently.” Sherlock says as he takes a seat in the chair Iris was just in, opening John’s laptop. Iris drapes Molly’s coat over the couch, sitting opposite Sherlock at the desk. John grabs a chair from the kitchen and places it near the center of the room for Molly.

“It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me so it’s almost worth it.” Mrs. Hudson offers, raising her glass happily. 

“John? The counter on your blog, it still says 1,895.” Sherlock observes, John moving to look over his shoulder. 

“On no, Christmas is cancelled.” John says in mock seriousness, smacking his hand on the desk for fake emphasis. 

“And you’ve got a photograph of me wearing that hat!” Sherlock exclaims, Iris remembering the lovely shot of Sherlock in the deerstalker. 

“People like the hat.” Iris states, taking another sip of her drink.

“No, they don’t. What people?” Sherlock tries to figure it out, typing away at the laptop. 

“How’s the hip?” Molly calls across to Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, it’s atrocious, but thanks for asking.” Mrs. Hudson replies. 

“I’ve seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems.” Molly attempts at a joke. “Oh, God, sorry,” she tries to correct the offense, nervously tucking a strand of her copper hair back in place. She’s about to say something else, before being cut off.

“Don’t make jokes, Molly.” Sherlock scolds her, Iris kicking his foot under the desk. He turns his head trying to figure out why she did that, Iris giving him another look of ‘be nice.’ Sherlock huffs but resumes his exploration of John’s website.

Lestrade offers Molly a glass of wine, her taking it as she changes the subject. “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” Molly says to him, “I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas?” 

“That’s first thing in the morning, me and the wife, we’re back together, it’s all sorted.” Lestrade says happily, Iris remembering a few conversations over drinks where Lestrade asked for hers and Molly’s advice. Between the kids and his long hours away at work, he feared he was losing their initial connection as a couple. She was glad to see them working things out.

“No, she’s sleeping with the PE teacher.” Sherlock states plainly, not even looking up from the laptop. Iris gives him another swift kick under the table, adding a stern “Sherlock,” in reprimand. 

Molly decides to change the subject again. “John, I hear you’re off to your sister’s, is that right?” John nods with a smile. “Sherlock was complaining.” Molly says, Sherlock giving her a bit of side-eye from the laptop. Quickly she adds, “Saying.” 

“First time ever, she’s cleaned up her act, she’s off the booze.” John announces proudly. Iris smiles, knowing how difficult it was for John to discuss Harriet’s drinking problems. He mostly avoided the topic unless Iris managed to catch him after a particularly irritable phone call with her where John would then rant and Iris would simply let him.

“Nope.” Sherlock grumbles, earning a final kick from Iris just as John calls out, “Shut up, Sherlock!” Sherlock seems unperturbed by the scolding, merely shifting his focus.

“I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you’re serious about him.” He finally looks over at Molly. She stops mid sip of her drink.

“What? Sorry, what?” 

“In fact, you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift.” Sherlock deduces yet again, nearly teasing her with his fake excitement.

“Take a day off.” John mumbles under his breath, Iris looking to the ceiling in annoyance.

“Shut up and have a drink.” Lestrade tries, depositing a cup of tea next to the laptop. Sherlock ignores it and presses on.

“Oh, come on, surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best.” Sherlock rises, buttoning his suit jacket importantly. “It’s for someone special, then.” 

“Sherlock...” Iris tries calling from her seat, he merely disregards her as he reaches for the gift to inspect it.

“The shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind.” Sherlock’s enjoying this while Molly just looks mortified. Iris puts her forehead in her hand, looking over to John in his chair, whose face shares a similar expression. 

Sherlock, unaware of all of this, continues. “The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she’s wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts...” Sherlock opens the tag on the gift, Iris watching as he realizes the gift is for him. He stops midsentence, unsure what to do. Molly finds her voice amongst the embarrassment.

“You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always.” She squeaks out. Sherlock lowers the gift, looking around to see the faces of everyone else. Realizing his mistake, Sherlock does something Iris never thought he would. He apologizes. 

“I am sorry. Forgive me.” John’s head whips up, catching Iris’ eye at the same time, a look of bewilderment shared between them. Sherlock closes the distance between him and Molly, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” He says quietly to her. Just as he pulls away, that godawful text alert calls out from Sherlock’s jacket. Molly gasps in horror. 

“Oh no! That wasn’t, I didn’t...” She stammers, Sherlock cutting her off.

“No, it was me.” Sherlock says quietly.

“My God, really?” Lestrade asks, baffled from the kitchen. 

“My phone.” Sherlock explains, reaching into his pocket for it. John hums from his chair.

“Fifty-seven?” John asks, Iris counting the number of times she’s heard it as well. “Fifty-seven of those texts, the ones I’ve heard.”

“Add in eighteen more, when I’ve been here and you haven’t.” Iris adds, rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness of this turn of events.

“Thrilling that you’ve both been counting.” Sherlock says, looking up from his phone and over to the mantle. He reaches for a small red box, eyeing it carefully, then excuses himself from the room. He walks down the hallway, John trying to call after him, but Sherlock doesn’t respond. 

“Do you ever reply?” John tries instead, Sherlock ignoring him entirely. Molly takes an anxious sip of her wine, Iris rising to join her. She starts a conversation about caroling, Iris asking for any London traditions she may not know about. The rest of the group joins in, the tension in the room seemingly broken.

Curiosity eventually gets the better of John and Iris and they end up down the hallway, looking in Sherlock’s door that’s open slightly. He’s on the phone with someone, saying that they will probably find ‘the woman’ dead tonight. John tries to ask if Sherlock’s okay, only to have him slam the door shut right in their faces. 

Iris and John merely share a look, unsure how serious Sherlock was in saying they’d find Irene Adler dead tonight. They return to the party, drinking and trying to join in the general merriment. Sherlock takes his time coming back from his room, merely going over to John’s laptop but not typing anything. 

Molly’s phone rings about an hour later, Iris watching her face fall as she hangs up and says she’s being called into work. She packs up her things, says her goodbyes, and slips out the door. Sherlock’s phone rings a moment or two after, Sherlock merely muttering a short “I’ll be right there,” before hanging up and putting his coat on. Mrs. Hudson tries to get a reason as to why he has to go, Sherlock just brushing her aside and leaving without another word. Iris watches him out the window as he hails a cab when John’s phone rings.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” John answers, standing up from his chair and Jeanette. He crosses towards Iris at the window, mouthing ‘Mycroft’ as he listens. “You mean she’s dead? What happened?” Iris’ eyes widen, motioning for Lestrade to join them. John puts the phone on speaker and Mycroft’s voice becomes audible to them all. 

“I’m worried that tonight may be a danger night for my brother. Sentiment can be... difficult... at times, and I fear that the loss of Irene Adler could push him somewhere I know we’d all like to avoid him going.” Iris remembers the drugs bust when she first moved into Baker Street, John and Iris both surprised that someone with Sherlock’s mental abilities abusing any substances worth ‘busting’ him over.

Eventually John looped Iris in to the few conversations John has had with Mycroft, discussing Sherlock’s lengthy battle with drugs over the years. From morphine to cocaine, to anything really. Iris tries to push away thoughts of her own problem in the past, focusing on the phone in John’s hand.

“Okay, well we can do a sweep of things here in the flat, make sure if he’s got anything here it’ll be dumped.” John offers, Iris nodding at the idea. 

“Thank you. I do hope I’m wrong.” Mycroft’s tone bleeds worry over the line, though Iris can hear him earnestly trying to cover it up.

“Try offering him a cigarette, he’s been using those patches and avoided smoking for so long now, maybe he’ll surprise you and reject it.” John adds, Iris mentally trying to think of all the nooks and crannies in the apartment.

“I will, I’ll call back and let you know when he’s on his way back to Baker Street.” Mycroft hangs up without another word, Iris, John, and Lestrade sharing a worried look. The three then set off in a searching spree, checking every cupboard and loose baseboard they can find for some sort of stash. John’s date Jeanette seems skeptical as to what they’re doing, occupying herself on the couch with her phone. They loop Mrs. Hudson in, who joins in the search, worried over Sherlock.

John checks the kitchen, Lestrade climbing up on a stool to look on the upper shelves of the bookcase, and Mrs. Hudson takes the messy desk. Iris checks the bathroom before heading into Sherlock’s bedroom, feeling an immense amount of privacy being invaded. Remembering the worry in Mycroft’s voice spurs her forward, knowing it has to be done. She checks the nightstands, under the bed, and in the wardrobe but nothing pops up. 

Opening his dresser drawers, Iris sees a very organized index of Sherlock’s socks. She mentally takes an image of how things are arranged, managing to return everything back to its original place. Hopefully, Sherlock won’t notice the interruption of his personal belongings, though Iris knows that he most definitely will.

A solid half an hour of searching has the three coming up empty-handed. Lestrade decides to head home, still worried about the comment Sherlock made regarding his wife and the PE teacher, John promising to call if they need anything. 

Shortly after Lestrade leaves, John’s phone rings with Mycroft. John puts it on speaker for Iris to hear, the two huddled over the phone in the kitchen. 

“He’s on his way. Have you found anything?” Mycroft asks, hoping the answer is no.

“No, did he take the cigarette?” John asks. 

“Yes.” Mycroft says dejectedly. 

“Shit.” John says, looking to Iris. He turns around to Mrs. Hudson, waiting anxiously in the living room. “He’s coming, ten minutes.” Mrs. Hudson nods, wringing her hands.

“Well, it looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places.” John adds. “Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?” 

“No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.” John looks over to his date on the couch. Iris is about to offer to stay, to let John enjoy the rest of the night with Jeanette. 

“I’ve got plans-” John starts, unable to finish his sentence.

“No.” Mycroft cuts in before swiftly ending the call. John repeats his name, hoping maybe Mycroft didn’t hang up but it’s no use. He pockets his phone and moves over to Jeanette on the couch. Mrs. Hudson turns to Iris. 

“We probably shouldn’t all be up here when he gets back, I’m going to head back dear.” Mrs. Hudson offers, grabbing the present Molly gave her earlier. Iris nods, watching John’s failed attempt to salvage his relationship with Jeanette.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow morning, alright? And we’ll call if we need you, I hope we don’t.” Iris adds, giving Mrs. Hudson a hug before she leaves. Jeanette stands up angrily off the couch with her coat, John following after her.

“No, I’ll do anything for you, just tell me what it is I’m not doing, tell me!” John pleads.

“Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!” Jeanette cries out, Iris moving to sit on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. This can’t be good.

“I’ll walk your dog for you. There, I’ve said it now, I’ll even walk your dog.” John offers, Iris smacking her forehead with her palm. 

“I don’t have a dog!” Jeanette exclaims, Iris remembering it was the girlfriend before that who had a dog. Granted Iris has her HSAM so she’s at a bit of an advantage with her memory, but even John can do better than that. Jeanette storms out, John standing dejectedly in the doorway.

“That really wasn’t very good, was it?” Iris asks as she readjusts her skirt, John simply hanging his head with a long exhale. He collapses down into his chair, staring at the roaring fire in their fireplace. Iris crosses her arms comfortingly across her chest, one hand reaching up for her necklace to fiddle with it. Her gaze falls to the crackling fire as well, the flat quieting. 

“Has Sherlock had many danger nights since you’ve moved in here?” Iris asks quietly, eyes still on the fire. John doesn’t respond at first, inhaling and shifting his chin to his fist.

“Only a few, and mostly because Mycroft jumps the gun a bit, thinks it’ll be a problem when it’s not. The most I’ve seen of Sherlock and drugs has been those nicotine patches.” John laughs at the thought. “We’ve never actually talked about it though, it’s always been through Mycroft. I search the flat, and Sherlock and I don’t talk about it.”

“That’s what my friends did to me after I overdosed.” Iris remembers, lost in thought staring at the fire. 

“What?” John asks, concerned. Iris pulls her gaze from the fire, realizing she hasn’t told John about this.

“About two years ago, I overdosed on heroin. It was a really, really dumb move and I’ve been sober ever since, but once that happened, my friends would talk about it to everyone but me. I could tell from conversations that ended abruptly when I returned from the bathroom, or when I’d come home and find everything in my apartment slightly out of place.” Iris shrugs.

“Wow... How did that happen?” John asked, after a moment or so of processing.

“I’d recently been diagnosed with my HSAM, being the subject of so many studies and seen by so many different psychologists... I was depressed.” Iris searches for how to articulate what she means. “I just wanted my brain to stop, for like, a second. Just stop with the remembering and the barrage of emotions out of nowhere.” Iris looks back to the fire. “I was in a very dark place and isolated myself because I figured no one would understand. 

“I was out late walking one night, watching a few guys over by this skate park who were very much _not_ skating. I asked if they had anything to share and one of them gave me a small baggie saying it would make all the pain stop. And I was so low I thought why the hell not.” Iris shakes her head. “Flash to me in the ER having had no pulse for almost two full minutes. Yeah, that stopped my memory alright.” Iris’ attempt at a joke. She looks to John, hoping she hasn’t brought the mood down too low. John watches her, managing a bit of a smile.

“You could say that again. I’m glad you’re alright.” He adds, Iris smiling back.

“Yeah, it was a very uphill climb from there. I was lucky to have the support of friends and to avoid an actual addiction problem. I know that isn’t the case for a lot of people... But it’s always a battle. It took lots of tricks to help manage my memory, focusing on the present and trying not to obsess over the past.” Iris laughs. “Though, spending these past couple of months with you two has given me quite a lot of new memories to focus on. So thanks for that.” Iris smiles, looking back to the fire. “But even tonight, all the commotion, the music, I was fighting off a barrage of Christmas memories all evening. I’ve just learned to accept it and not try to make it stop, because I know I can’t.” Iris shrugs. “And I’ve made peace with it.”

A few minutes pass in silence, only the fire sputtering beside them.

“I just can’t believe she’s really dead.” John breaks the silence, Iris pulling herself from the fire.

“I know... Sherlock must have really cared for her to cause all this.” Iris says quietly. John hums in agreement. “And poor Molly, being called into the morgue on Christmas. That must have been fun.” Iris says sarcastically. 

The front door downstairs pulls their attention. Iris rises to move to the sofa, leaving Sherlock’s chair vacated if he wants it when he returns. John picks up a book from the table next to him, opening to a random page to start reading. Iris pages through the handful of magazines on the coffee table in front of her.

They sit in a comfortable silence reading, while Sherlock’s slow steps creak up the staircase. He enters the flat, Belstaff coat still on, standing in the doorway. Iris and John both look up from their reading.

“Oh, hi.” John says as nonchalantly as he can, Sherlock scanning the room. “You okay?” Sherlock doesn’t respond, his eyes moving slowly around taking in everything. Finished with his observation, Sherlock simply turns and walks down the hallway to his room.

“I hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.” Sherlock calls back. His door shuts with a firm click, John looking over to Iris at the couch.

“Last time I put his socks away backwards, figured with your memory you’d have better luck.” John says, Iris smiling.

“Don’t worry, it looks just as it did when I opened the drawer. It didn’t take long to figure out his index system, so it should be back as it was.” Iris says quietly. John nods, looking back to the fire. “And hey, at least he acknowledged that we swept the flat, he didn’t just ignore it like things weren’t moved out of place.” Iris offers in a lowered voice, John humming a short ‘yeah’ back to her. “I think I may head downstairs. I’m happy to stay if you think I’m needed, I just don’t want to be in the way.” John pulls his focus back to Iris, his chin resting in his hand.

“Up to you, I think he’s in for the night so there shouldn’t be too much to worry about... For now at least.” John offers. Iris rises with a stretch.

“Well it’s Sherlock, so there’s probably always something to worry about. Call if you need me.” Iris moves to the door. “Merry Christmas, John.” John turns his head to smiles slightly.

“Merry Christmas, Iris.” 

Back in her flat, Iris watches the snow fall out the window above her sink, fiddling with her necklace as she contemplates the evening’s events. With most of the lights off and no one around, Iris lets her thoughts wander, allowing whatever memories she’s been suppressing to take up space in her vision. Grateful for the happier of her Christmas memories, Iris moves away from the window and heads to sleep, wondering how the loss of Irene Adler will affect Sherlock.

The next morning Iris rolls over in bed, hearing one of the most melancholy tunes she has ever heard wafting down from upstairs. Iris yawns as she gets out of bed, dressing in a burnt yellow sweater and jeans before braiding her hair and making herself a bowl of cereal. The tune continues on while she eats, Iris checking her phone to see if John messaged her. Putting on her Converse sneakers, Iris decides to head up and check on Sherlock.

The front door is open as usual, Iris running into John in the stairwell down from his room. He smiles a quiet good morning to her, Iris catching Mrs. Hudson passing through the living room. John moves to the desk to grab his coat, Mrs. Hudson clearing plates from breakfast, no one discussing the very blue tune falling from Sherlock and his violin by the window. Suddenly he stops, lowers his violin, and makes notes on the music stand in front of him.

“Lovely tune, Sherlock.” Iris offers, smiling in his direction as he looks briefly over his shoulder at her. 

“Haven’t heard that one before.” Mrs. Hudson adds, moving into the kitchen with the plates in her hands. Sherlock doesn’t respond, merely making more notes on the paper.

“You composing?” John asks.

“Helps me to think.” Sherlock responds. He returns his violin to his shoulder, continuing the piece he played before. John looks to Iris before turning back to Sherlock.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, trying to strike up a conversation with Sherlock. Suddenly, Sherlock whirls around, depositing his violin into his chair, pointing at the open laptop on the desk.

“The count on your blog is still stuck at 1,895.” 

“Yes. Faulty, can’t seem to fix it.” John offers, looking down at the computer as well. 

“Faulty or you’ve been hacked and it’s a message.” Sherlock pulls out a compact camera phone, entering the four digits onto the screen. His face falls and Sherlock pockets the phone. “Just faulty.” Sherlock picks up his violin again, dropping into silence as he plays. John turns to Iris with a shrug.

“Well, I’m going out for a bit.” John offers as he moves to the kitchen, Iris cutting through the side door in the entryway to join him and Mrs. Hudson at the table. 

“Was that Irene’s camera phone? The one with all the photos and information Mycroft was looking for?” Iris asks under her breath, John simply watching Sherlock. 

“Maybe, I never actually saw it when we were at her place, I don’t know how he would have gotten ahold of it... Listen,” John turns to Mrs. Hudson, “has he ever had any kind of girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?” 

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Hudson thinks. John looks at them both.

“How can we not know?” He asks, reaching for his keys on the table. 

“He’s Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?” Mrs. Hudson replies, Iris nodding. 

“It’s not like he’s very forthcoming with that sort of information.” Iris adds.

“Right... Well, I’ll see you.” John makes his way out of the flat, Iris moving to the sink to help Mrs. Hudson with the dishes. They quietly get everything put away, Sherlock moving between his violin and his music notes, Iris following Mrs. Hudson downstairs to her flat.

Being a weekend, Iris stays in Mrs. Hudson’s flat for the afternoon, playing cards and watching a bit of television. They hear Sherlock leave out the front door, glad to see him out of the house and not still in his pajamas. 

After lunch, Iris is about to head back to her flat when there’s a loud knocking on the door out front. Iris follows Mrs. Hudson out, standing by her apartment door watching as the front door flies open, three men rushing into the foyer, grabbing Mrs. Hudson with a yelp. Iris runs towards them, trying to get at Mrs. Hudson, as one of the men grabs her, pulling her arms behind her and dragging them both up the stairs. 

The two fight as hard as they can, scraping and flailing with all their might, though to no avail as the men are armed and able to fully incapacitate them. Once upstairs, they pull two of the kitchen chairs into the center of the room, throwing both women into them while pointing guns at their heads. Mrs. Hudson is openly crying, so loud that one of the men backhands her, grabbing her by the upper arm so forcibly Iris shouts in protest. That then earns her a slap of her own, Iris feeling her bottom lip split on impact.

The men start talking to each other, Iris immediately recognizing their American accents. They demand to know where the phone is and Iris realizes they must be the Americans who ambushed Sherlock and John at Irene’s. They both play innocent, Iris honestly having no clue where the phone could be, last she saw it was in Sherlock’s hand that morning.

“Please, sir, we don’t know what you’re talking about, honestly.” Iris pulls out her best fake English accent, trying to cover up the fact that she’s American as well. Unsure if that’s the right move, it doesn’t seem to be the wrong one as they merely continue berating them with questions. Mrs. Hudson cries so much, her nose running causing her to snivel. She quietly asks if she can go to the bathroom to blow her nose, saying she doesn’t know where the phone is but she’s sure Sherlock will give it to them whenever he gets back. 

Somehow satisfied with that, one of the men leads her down the hallway and stands outside the door while Iris hears Mrs. Hudson loudly blow her nose. Iris gingerly reaches up to her lip, wincing in pain as she finds blood on her fingertips. Mrs. Hudson returns from the bathroom, bringing a bit of toilet paper for Iris’ lip, which she takes gratefully. Now they just wait for Sherlock to return.

Thankfully, Sherlock is back within twenty minutes of the American’s arrival, Sherlock calmly opening the door to the flat. He must have noticed the front door still open and the general scuffle in the foyer, because he was not surprised by the scene in front of him. The tall, blonde American who did most of the demanding earlier, grabs Mrs. Hudson by the shoulder, putting the end of his gun right to her temple. The man next to Iris does the same, Iris trying not to squirm under the pressure. 

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson cries, Iris making eye contact with him, wondering what he’s going to do. 

“Don’t snivel, Mrs. Hudson, it’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.” Sherlock states, causing Iris to roll her eyes. “What a tender world that would be.” He adds, looking menacingly at the man with a gun to Mrs. Hudson’s head. 

“Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock.” She wails, bringing her hands to her face. 

“I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes.” The American thug says, tightening his grip on Mrs. Hudson.

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” Sherlock asks, moving closer to look at Mrs. Hudson’s injuries. Gently he moves away one of her sleeves, looking at her wrist to see the bruises starting to form. He then moves to Iris, immediately noticing her lip and the blood droplets on her sweater. 

“Oh, I’ve been asking them both, but neither seems to know anything.” 

“That’s because we don’t know anything.” Iris bites out, accent feeling strange on her tongue but sounding surprisingly accurate for what she was going for. Sherlock tilts his head slightly, though not giving Iris away. 

“But you know what I’m asking for, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?” To say rage filled Sherlock’s eyes as he assessed both of them would be a vast understatement. Sherlock seems to be figuring out all the ways to undermine and injure these men, probably finding more than Iris did in the time she’s been in her chair. 

“I believe I do.” Sherlock says simply, standing up to his full height. “First get rid of your boys.” He demands.

“Why?” The man asks, both he and the other rough looking blonde looming over Iris tightening their grip again. 

“I dislike being outnumbered, it makes for too much stupid in the room.” Sherlock says.

The leader of the trio looks to both his colleagues, telling them to wait in the car. The man holding Iris’ shoulder lets go, while the gun pressed to Mrs. Hudson’s temple moves to Sherlock. 

“Then get into the car and drive away. Don’t try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn’t work.” Sherlock bites, watching the men leave the flat. “Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.” 

“So you can point a gun at me?” The man replies with a snort.

“I’m unarmed.” Sherlock offers his arms out.

“Mind if I check?” 

“Oh, I insist.” Sherlock responds, Iris watching as the man lowers his gun and checks Sherlock for weapons, moving his coat aside and circling around him. Iris reaches over and takes Mrs. Hudson’s hand in comfort, noticing Sherlock roll his eyes at the lengthy search. At the last second, right when the man is behind him, Sherlock grabs a can off the desk, turns, and sprays the American right in the eyes, and swiftly headbutts him to the floor. Iris notices that it’s that same yellow can of spray paint from the Chinese cipher, ever so glad of its usefulness now. Sherlock tosses the can up with a whirl, muttering “Moron,” as he sets the can back on the desk. 

Sherlock moves over to Mrs. Hudson and Iris, kneeling down in between them both. Iris puts a hand on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder, her seeming more upset and in need of calming down. 

“Oh, thank you.” She says as Sherlock reaches up to check the cut on her cheek. 

“You’re all right now, you’re both all right.” Sherlock reassures her, Iris exhaling. He turns to look at Iris’ lip a bit closer, taking the bit of toilet paper and blotting it again for her. 

When Iris winces, Sherlock turns back to the unconscious man by the couch, murder in his eyes. He rises, moving about the flat to gather some duct tape and rope, Iris helping Mrs. Hudson stand up from their chairs. Sherlock swiftly ties the man up, just as he starts to regain consciousness. Sherlock moves to deposit him into one of the chairs, gun aimed right at the blonde's forehead. Iris leads Mrs. Hudson over to the couch, settling her somewhere a bit more comfortable, hearing John’s footsteps climb the stairs. He enters the flat to take in the scene.

“What’s going on?” John asks incredulously. “Jesus, what the hell is happening?” 

Sherlock pulls out his cell phone, gun still in his other hand. “Mrs. Hudson and Iris have been attacked by an American. I’m restoring balance to the universe.” 

John turns to see Mrs. Hudson and Iris on the couch, moving quickly over to them.

“Oh, my God, are you both all right?” Iris nodding as John reaches up to Mrs. Hudson’s face. He turns to see Iris’ split lip, blood on her sweater. “Jesus, what have they done to you?” Mrs. Hudson covers her face with her hands.

“Oh, I’m just being so silly.” She cries, Iris rubbing a hand on her back to try and comfort her, her other hand trying to blot her lip again, wincing in pain. 

“Downstairs, take them both downstairs and look after them.” Sherlock orders, moving closer to the tied-up man. John helps Mrs. Hudson stand, Iris rising with them. 

“It’s all right now, I’ll have a look at that.” John offers, helping her towards the door. John takes a step towards Sherlock before they leave. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” 

“I expect so, now go.” Sherlock responds, the two sharing a protective look of anger at the man before them. Iris hears Sherlock talking to Lestrade as they climb down the stairs, following John into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. John heads right for the first aid kit under her sink, Iris going for a glass of water for Mrs. Hudson. John takes out a small antiseptic wipe, opening it up and looking closer at her cheek. Mrs. Hudson winces at the sting, Iris tossing her bloodied toilet paper, swapping it for a clean bit of gauze.

“You don’t think this will need any stitches, do you?” Iris asks, leaning against the counter next to Mrs. Hudson. John moves to look, gently placing his thumb on her chin to move it towards the light. He shakes his head.

“No, I think you’re alright, it doesn’t look too deep.” Suddenly there is a loud crash outside the window of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. All three look out, realizing the American that was tied up in John and Sherlock’s flat now lays crumpled in a pile of Mrs. Hudson’s trashcans. Sherlock must have thrown him out the upstairs window, Iris chuckling before realizing that she probably shouldn’t laugh. Mrs. Hudson gasps. 

“Oh, that was right on my bins!” She cries. John tries to hide his smile, looking to Iris over the sink. They get Mrs. Hudson cleaned up, Iris going to her flat to change sweaters, bringing the soiled one back for Mrs. Hudson to soak and help Iris lift the stain. John pulls out a piece of ice from the freezer and wraps it in a small paper towel to help stop the swelling on Iris’ lip, glad to find the bleeding had finally stopped. 

All the while, Iris hears a crashing noise repeat outside Mrs. Hudson’s window every three or four minutes. Losing count, Iris happily ignores Sherlock’s shadow returning outside, realizing Sherlock’s ‘restoration of the universe’ is just fine with her. 

John makes some tea and the three sit around the little kitchenette table. Soon sirens wail out on the street, Lestrade and his backup having arrived. Iris and John choose to stay inside with Mrs. Hudson, who seems to have calmed down somewhat. Sherlock arrives a bit later, wiping his feet on the rug. 

“She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat, we need to look after her.” John tells Sherlock.

“She can stay down with me if that’s easier, we can make an evening out of it.” Iris offers with a warm smile, placing her hand on Mrs. Hudson’s next to her. 

“No.” Sherlock responds simply, moving to the fridge for something to eat. “She’s fine.”

“No, she’s not, look at her.” John says. “She’s got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can go stay with her sister. Doctor’s orders.” John furthers, Iris sad to think of Baker Street without Mrs. Hudson. The boys would starve.

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock replies, taking a bite out of some fruit tart from the fridge. 

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone.” John says angrily. Iris turns to Sherlock.

“Where is it, anyway?” Iris asks.

“Safest place I know.” Sherlock responds with a smile. He turns to Mrs. Hudson, Iris and John following his gaze. Mrs. Hudson grins and pulls the camera phone out from her bra. 

“You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot!” Mrs. Hudson scolds playfully. Iris snorts in shock.

“You little sneak! You got that when you went to blow your nose, didn’t you?” Iris asks incredulously, Mrs. Hudson grinning as she hands the phone to Sherlock.

“I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.” Mrs. Hudson explains to a still very confused John. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock says genuinely, taking another bite of his fruit tart. He moves behind Iris to stand in between her and Mrs. Hudson. “Shame on you, John Watson.”

“Shame on me?” John asks bewildered.

“Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall.” Sherlock says frankly, putting a hand on her shoulder protectively.

“At the very least, you two would starve.” Iris adds with a chuckle, sending the four of them into a bout of laughter. Once Mrs. Hudson settles in for the night, Iris leaves with John and Sherlock into the foyer. Iris goes to unlock her flat.

“What would Americans want with a dead woman’s cell phone?” Iris asks, the thought stopping her. John turns to Iris on the stairs.

“Well, umm, she actually isn’t dead.” John admits, Iris’ eyes widening in shock.

“What?! But, the body at the morgue?” Iris asks, bewildered. Sherlock ignores both of them, climbing the stairs to his flat. John walks back down the few stairs he was on, closing the distance to Iris.

“It was fake, I saw her only a few hours ago. Sherlock too. She faked her death and left Sherlock her camera phone for safekeeping.” John explains, Iris completely beside herself in confusion.

“How did Sherlock seem when he realized she was alive?” Iris lowers her voice to ask.

“I’m not sure, he disappeared before I could catch up with him.” John trails off, looking up the stairs. “She’s asked him to dinner, loads of other little messages here and there, and every single text she’s sent he’s completely ignored. I don’t know where his head is.” John sighs.

“Well then, that took a turn I wasn’t expecting.” Iris shakes her head, wondering what Sherlock thinks of it all. John chuckles sadly. 

“Yeah, same here.” He pulls his focus from the stairs to look back at Iris. “Now, you sure you’re alright for the night? Definitely put some more ice on that lip, so it doesn’t swell too much.” John instructs. Iris smiles, as best she can with the cut.

“I’ll be fine. It’s funny, I was so focused on how upset I was over them hurting Mrs. Hudson I didn’t seem to mind whatever they did to me.” Iris shrugs. “Or maybe I’m just used to it now, who knows. These guys had nothing on Moriarty’s men, I mean they didn’t even have any explosives.” Iris teases. 

“Yeah, well I still don’t like that.” John tuts.

“Mrs. Hudson and I both know it comes with the territory. It’s not your fault, mostly Sherlock’s.” Iris teases some more, eliciting a grin from John. 

“Yeah, blame it all on him.” John says, Iris laughing. “Goodnight Iris, see you later.”

“Night John.” Iris watches him climb the stairs before returning back to her flat. 

Iris passes the New Year quietly with Mrs. Hudson, hearing Sherlock playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ softly upstairs at midnight. Iris texts Sam and a handful of her other friends back in New York, grateful for the warm fire in Mrs. Hudson’s living room. 

A few more months pass uneventfully, Iris falling into her swing at work, spending time with Molly outside of the lab, and helping John and Sherlock whenever they need her. Alfred continues to dodge Iris’ calls, claiming that he’s starting to do some of the groundwork on his own, that she should just be patient while he reaches out to a few places. Iris decides to try calling Mycroft.

“Hello?” Mycroft answers flatly.

“Hi, Mycroft, it’s Iris Moretti.” Iris offers cheerfully.

“Ah, yes, hello Iris, what can I do for you?” Mycroft responds, somewhat distractedly.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” Iris readjusts her shirt nervously, wishing she had her fidget cube nearby. 

“No, not at all.” Mycroft never gives any sort of emotion as to how he’s feeling one way or the other, and Iris hates not having those social cues to work off of. 

“Well, um... I was wondering if my PI Alfred had reached out to you or your office at all?” She asks carefully. “He’s been giving me the go-around for months now, when I first met with him he seemed so sure he’d have answers soon... I was just wondering if something happened. You were so kind to offer to help, and I gave him your number, but it’s still been a dead end.” Iris hopes Mycroft will have some sort of answer, his silence on the other end unnerving her.

“Ah, yes he did reach out, I have a note from my assistant Anthea here.” Iris hears a few papers shuffling. “He didn’t seem to have much to go on, but we gave him a few names to try and spur forward his search. But that was quite some time ago, I thought when he never called back that he’d reached out to you and things had moved forward. My apologies.” Mycroft says simply. 

“Ah, I see, no problem. That’s on him for not following through. I really appreciate it Mycroft, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I do hope it gets sorted out. Good day.”

“Goodbye Mycroft.” Iris hangs up the phone, confused as to what’s going on with her private detective and why something that seemed so sure only a few months ago has once again gone cold. She decides to leave a very stern message for Alfred, asking him as kindly as she can to figure out what’s going on and give her a clear answer as soon as possible. Deciding to let that sit, Iris heads off to work. 

Spring rolls around, still cold and rainy as London usually is, but Iris enjoys hanging up her heavier knit sweaters in exchange for her lighter cardigans and blouses. Iris finds herself walking back from the underground station nearest Baker Street, running into John just heading back from the shops.

“Wow, doing some of the shopping yourself for a change, is Mrs. Hudson sick?” Iris teases, catching John off guard with a laugh.

“Well, had to give her some time off now and then.” He chuckles, the two falling in step as they reach Baker Street. “Want to come up for some tea?” John offers as he opens the door, Iris accepting the invitation. They climb the stairs, John going to put his bags down, Iris noticing Sherlock standing in the open doorway to his bedroom.

“Hey, Sherlock,” Iris calls out.

“We have a client.” Sherlock announces from his spot in the doorway. Iris starts down the hallway, John close behind.

“What, in your bedroom?” Iris asks, wondering what Sherlock’s looking at. They reach the doorframe and Iris peers around, John entering next to Sherlock. Sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, recently showered and wearing comfortable pajamas, lays a woman. Her dark brown hair almost matches Iris’, her long lashes lining her closed eyelids. John recognizes the woman, Iris realizing this must be the famed ‘Irene Adler.’ 

They vacate the bedroom to let her sleep a bit more, John starting the pot of tea while Iris waits in the kitchen. John offers her a cup and takes his over to the desk, Iris sitting down in John’s empty armchair. Sherlock turns as his bedroom door opens, the woman padding out into the living room. She looks around the room, taking in John and Sherlock, noticing Iris for the first time. Iris sets her teacup down and turns in her seat, somewhat awkwardly.

“Um, hello there. I’m Iris, a friend of John and Sherlock’s.” Iris offers a small wave rather than a handshake, the woman simply nodding once in acknowledgment. 

“Irene Adler.” She offers simply. Iris is almost caught off guard with how beautiful she is, even without any make-up or clothing that would fall under her usual job description. Irene crosses towards Sherlock’s leather armchair, watching as Sherlock pulls one of the desk chairs out to sit down himself. 

“So, who’s after you?” Sherlock asks, any other pleasantries or questions as to why she was asleep in Sherlock’s bed completely ignored.

“People who want to kill me.” Irene responds coolly.

“Who’s that?” Sherlock pushes.

“Killers.” She responds slyly. Iris can see the manipulative streak of the dominatrix in front of her, though the still damp hair and long-sleeved pajamas leave a bit of discord. 

“It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific.” John offers, sitting between the two of them at the desk. 

“So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them?” Sherlock deduces. 

“It worked for a while.” Irene admits.

“Except you let John know that you’re alive and therefore me.” Sherlock says.

“I knew you’d keep my secret.” Irene toys.

“And you couldn’t?” Sherlock asks, wondering why she faked her death only to say she’s alive, turning up out of the blue like this.

“But you did, didn’t you?” Irene’s gaze falls on Sherlock so deeply, Iris bouncing her eyes back and forth trying to watch both their reactions. “Where’s my camera phone?” 

“It’s not here. We’re not stupid.” John says, taking a sip of his tea. 

“Then what have you done with it? If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.” Iris can sense the worry in Irene’s voice, her sitting forward in Sherlock’s chair.

“If they’ve been watching me, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.” Sherlock explains, Iris remembering John as he explained the plan to keep the phone out of the flat.

“I need it.” Irene says. 

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” John asks.

“I could go, they wouldn’t suspect me. I could go, take it over to Bart’s, maybe hand it over to Molly Hooper, she could bring it here?” Iris offers, trying to think of a somewhat roundabout way to retrieve the phone without raising suspicion. John nods in agreeance with her plan, liking the idea. 

“She could drop it at the café, one of the boys down there could bring it up the back?” John furthers, Iris wondering if they’d really have to go that far.

“Very good, excellent plan, both of you. Intelligent precautions.” Sherlock praises, John sitting back and grinning.

“Thank you. So, why don’t I phone-” John starts, only to see Sherlock pull the camera phone out of his jacket pocket. Iris rolls her eyes with a laugh.

“Why didn’t I expect that.” Iris asks sardonically. John simply sighs. Sherlock plays with the phone in his hand, Irene standing up from the chair, on alert now that her phone is within reach.

“So, what do you keep on here? In general, I mean?” Sherlock asks. Irene crosses her arms in front of the unlit fireplace.

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful.”

“For blackmail?” John offers.

“For protection.” Irene counters. “I make my way in the world, I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.” Iris contemplates all the ways a dominatrix like Irene Adler ‘misbehaves,’ and with the Americans and the British Royal family both trying to find her, Irene’s network must be vast. 

“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection.” Sherlock deduces. “Do you know what it is?” 

“Yes.” Irene says with a smile. “But I don’t understand it.”

“I assumed. Show me.” Sherlock asks. Irene holds out her hand demanding the phone, Sherlock holding it away from her. “The passcode,” he calls for. When she doesn’t budge, Sherlock caves and hands over the camera phone. She inputs a code, Iris hearing a low buzzer sound, Irene’s face falling in confusion. 

“It’s not working.”

“No, because it’s a duplicate that I had made into which you’ve just entered the numbers 1058.” Sherlock stands from his seat and plucks the phone from her hand, pulling out what must be the real camera phone from the cushion of his armchair. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that, but thanks anyway.” Sherlock enters the code into the new phone, Iris hearing the same buzzer noise announce that it’s still the wrong code. 

“I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it’s in my hand.” Irene says quite pleased with herself for having outsmarted Sherlock.

“Oh, you’re rather good.” Sherlock admits, admiration in his voice.

“You’re not so bad.” Irene says, taking the real camera phone from Sherlock. The two look at each other, saying more than words can with just a look. Iris looks past them over to John, who seems just as confused as she is as to what’s actually happening between these two. The silence just too much for John, he breaks it.

“Hamish.” John blurts out, causing Sherlock and Irene to look at him. “John Hamish Watson, just if you were looking for baby names.” Iris snorts with laughter. Irene decides to change the subject.

“There was a man, an MOD official and I knew what he liked.” Irene says pointedly, moving across the room to the other side of the desk, scrolling through her phone. “One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it.” Irene offers the photo to Sherlock, who sits down at the desk in front of her. “He was a bit tied up at the time.” She smirks. “It’s a bit small on that screen, can you read it?” Sherlock nods. 

“Code, obviously.” Irene continues, Sherlock examining the screen. “I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it, though he was mostly upside-down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out. What can you do, Mr. Holmes?” Irene asks playfully, moving closer to Sherlock, leaning over his shoulder. “Go on, impress a girl.” She leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek. Before she can pull away, Sherlock already has an answer. Iris realizes that wasn’t even a full three seconds before he solved it.

“There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently, it’s going to save the world, I’m not sure how that could be true, but give me a moment, I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.” Sherlock says in his typical high-speed manner, though Iris senses a slight increase in his usual pace.

Iris rises from her seat, moving closer to John as they share a look of bewilderment. Sherlock looks between the three of them, annoyed they didn’t see the answer.

“Oh come on, it’s not code, these are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look!” Sherlock hands the phone to John, Iris peering down to see too. “There’s no letter I because it can be mistaken for a one. No letters past K, the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place. Families and couples sitting together. 

“Only a jumbo is wide enough to need a letter K or rows past 55, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row 13, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number, 007, that eliminates a few more.” Sherlock rises from his seat. “And assuming the British point of origin, which would be logical, considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow airport.” 

Sherlock finishes, looking to Irene who simply gazes up at Sherlock. “Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John’s expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language.” Sherlock says proudly. Iris still tries to process everything Sherlock’s just said, dumbstruck that this much information could be gathered from a tiny piece of code.

Irene doesn’t take her eyes off of Sherlock, merely responding, “I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.” The sexual tension between them is astounding. Sherlock doesn’t break eye contact while he asks John to check the flight schedules. 

Iris looks down to see John just as caught up in that exchange as Iris was, eyes shifting from Sherlock to Irene. Iris taps him on the shoulder to snap him out of it, watching as he checks the flight schedules on his laptop. Iris looks back at Sherlock to see the staring contest continuing between him and Irene.

“I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.” Sherlock states.

“Twice.” Irene repeats, maintaining their intense eye contact. A part of Iris wishes she was on the receiving end of that stare, but John’s voice pulls her out of it before her thoughts wander too far. 

“Uh, yeah, you’re right, flight double-oh seven.” John looks up from the screen.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asks, breaking his gaze with Irene. 

“You’re right.” John repeats.

“No, no, after that, what did you say after that?” Sherlock presses.

“Double-oh seven. Flight 007.” John looks back at the screen, Iris watching as Sherlock tries to figure out what 007 means. 

“Double-oh seven, something... double-oh seven...” Sherlock repeats, moving away from the desk to the other side of the living room.

“Double-oh seven, like James Bond?” Iris offers, only knowing the ads for the new movies use that number for their branding. Sherlock keeps repeating it, trying to unlock where he remembers that from. He turns from the fireplace to look at the open door, Iris remembering that morning back when Mycroft visited, when he yelled at Mrs. Hudson.

“Your brother, Mycroft.” Iris blurts out. “He mentioned something about ‘Bond Air" the morning after your first encounter with the Americans, is that it?” 

Sherlock turns on his heel to look at her, eyes wide. Suddenly his face shifts back into a normal, pensive look, inhaling and giving his hands a quick clap.

“Well, I’m starving, anything in John?” Sherlock leaves to the fridge, Iris looking down at John wondering why the sudden shift. 

Irene watches Sherlock from the living room, moving to lean on the back of John’s chair. John closes his laptop and moves to stand next to Iris.

“Any clue what that was about?” Iris asks, John simply sighing. 

“None whatsoever.” John responds, Sherlock having swiftly moved on from the matter.

“Well, I think I’m going to head back downstairs, let those two get on with whatever it is they’re getting on with. I’ll see you later.” Iris says with a nod. 

A few hours later, Iris hears a knock at the front door, wondering why the bell wasn’t working. She catches Mrs. Hudson on her way to answer it as well, finding a man on the front stoop. Iris recognizes him as the gentleman who whisked Sherlock away in his bedsheet to Buckingham Palace. 

“I’m here for Mr. Holmes.” He states. Mrs. Hudson peers from around Iris, moving out of the way as they let the man in. Mrs. Hudson calls up loudly for Sherlock, Iris following as they move upstairs. Mrs. Hudson opens the door to Sherlock and John’s flat, Iris noticing Irene Adler moving quickly away from Sherlock in his armchair. She wonders what they were in the middle of, noticing the warm fireplace and general low lighting of the room.

“Sherlock, this man was at the door, is the bell still not working?” Mrs. Hudson asks, turning to the gentleman next to Iris. “He shot it.” She explains angrily, Iris realizing that’s why she hasn’t heard the bell these past few days. 

“Have you come to take me away again?” Sherlock asks annoyedly from his chair. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.” The man says, moving towards Sherlock.

“Well, I decline.” 

“I don’t think you do.” The man produces an envelope from his jacket, handing it to Sherlock. He opens it, revealing what looks like an airline ticket or boarding pass. Sherlock turns it over in his hand, looks to the man, and rises from his seat. Iris and Mrs. Hudson watch Sherlock leave with the man, climbing into a car waiting on the street. Irene scrolls through her phone as she stands by the fireplace, Iris deciding to leave with Mrs. Hudson before trying to start any sort of conversation. Back in her flat, Iris hears Irene leave through the front door, John not returning for another hour or so. 

Iris hears the front door open, closing her laptop on the couch as she goes to try and catch John up with Sherlock being whisked off again, only to find John isn’t alone. Sherlock enters first, his expression pale with confusion, Mycroft following behind with a face full of disappointment, and Irene sauntering in, dressed up and looking much more like a dominatrix than the damp-haired pajama-wearing woman Iris first met. John closes the door behind everyone, Iris watching as they climb the stairs. She looks to John for some sort of explanation.

“Your guess is as good as mine, I just got back when they were walking up. It doesn’t look good though...” John trails off, motioning for Iris to follow him as they climb the stairs. 

Once in the flat above, Sherlock sits down in his armchair by the fire, looking deject and lost. Mycroft sits at the desk closest to Sherlock, his forehead resting in his hand. Irene looks beyond pleased with herself, sitting perched on the chair across from Mycroft. John removes his coat and heads for his armchair, Iris staying close to him and leaning her hip on the arm of it. John is the first to speak, his question echoing Iris’ thoughts.

“So, what’s happened Mycroft?” John looks to Sherlock who will not meet his eyes, instead staring into the fire. Irene smiles boldly. Mycroft sighs before lifting his head and turning to John and Iris.

“Have you ever heard of the Coventry conundrum?” He asks simply. John thinks, unable to find an answer. Iris remembers the history lesson distinctly. 

“It’s a story about the Allies in World War II, isn’t it?” Iris offers, Mycroft nodding. “The Allies knew that the Coventry was going to get bombed because they’d broken the German code but they didn’t want the Germans to know that they’d broken the code so they let it happen anyway.”

“What has Coventry got to do with this? Or with her?” John asks, frustrated. 

“We had intel that a terrorist cell was going to bomb a commercial plane, and so, in working with the American government, we devised a little... distraction.” Mycroft searches for the word. “'The Flight of the Dead’ as I called it. Basically, an entire 747 filled with dead bodies. The plane blows up midair, mission accomplished for the terrorists, hundreds of casualties but nobody dies.”

“That’s clever.” John snorts, still trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Neat, don’t you think?” Mycroft says with a sad smile. “You’ve all been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern?” Mycroft asks over his shoulder to Sherlock. He doesn’t respond. Iris thinks back to all the clients that have come around the flat.

“The girls who didn’t get to see their grandfather after he died? And the guy with the urn who didn’t think it was actually his aunt?” Iris recalls. Mycroft nods.

“We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight. But that’s the deceased for you, late, in every sense of the word.” Mycroft adds solemnly.

“The attack in Dusseldorf.” John adds, putting the pieces together.

“How is the plane going to fly though? What, an unmanned aircraft?” Iris asks.

“It doesn’t fly. It will never fly. The entire project is canceled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now.” Mycroft turns to Sherlock, still looking off into the fire. “We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning, finished.”

“Your MOD man.” Iris concludes, looking to Irene.

“That’s all it takes. One lonely, naïve man, desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.” Mycroft laments quietly.

“You should screen your defense people more carefully.” John jokes, thinking of whatever poor man let this kind of information slip into the hands of terrorists.

“He wasn’t talking about the MOD man.” Iris says quietly to John, looking to Sherlock.

“A damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance.” Mycroft’s anger seethes through his attack at Sherlock, who simply sits there taking each blow. 

“Don’t be absurd!” John tries to defend Sherlock, disbelieving that a man like Sherlock could be seduced in such a way. Iris recalls the melancholy tune from Sherlock’s violin after Irene ‘died,’ and how much more vibrant he seemed in his interactions with Irene once she returned. 

“Absurd?” Mycroft counters, turning back to Sherlock. “How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?”

“I think it was less than five seconds.” Irene says with a smirk from the desk. 

“I drove you into her path. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Mycroft sounds defeated, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to pull himself out of the anger and disappointment he has for Sherlock.

“There’s more, loads more,” Irene offers from her seat, her camera phone securely in her hand. “On this phone, I’ve got secrets and pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world.” Irene leans forward on the desk towards Mycroft, her black sleeveless dress catching the light from the fire as she moves. “You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me.” Mycroft doesn’t respond, Iris holding her breath wondering how they’ll manage to get out of this one.

“Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother.” Irene toys, sitting back comfortably in her chair. She crosses her legs, high heeled stiletto sharp as it moves with her foot. She deposits her locked phone on the desk proudly.

“We have people who can get into this.” Mycroft attempts, Irene laughing.

“I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera phone.” Irene calls sweetly over to Sherlock, who tenses in his chair. He manages to maintain a calmness to his voice and he responds.

“There are four additional units wired inside the casing. I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive. Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive.”

“Explosive.” Irene says seductively. “It’s more me.”

“Some data is always recoverable.” Mycroft counters, seemingly more exhausted. 

“Take that risk.” Irene teases. Mycroft does not look amused.

“You have a passcode to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you.” Iris tries not to think of how Mycroft’s people ‘extract’ information from their enemies. John watches as Sherlock closes his eyes with a sigh. Irene turns back to Sherlock calling his name. 

“There will be two passcodes, one to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress, you can’t know which one she’s given you, and there would be no point in a second attempt.” Sherlock replies dutifully, monotone in an effort to stay calm. Irene grins slyly.

“Oh, he’s good, isn’t he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might.” She says wistfully. Mycroft decides to try another tactic shift.

“We destroy this, then. No one has the information.” Mycroft says decidedly. Irene joins.

“Fine. Good idea.” Irene pauses. “Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you’re about to burn.”

“Are there?” Mycroft asks, eliciting a wicked grin from Irene.

“Telling you would be playing fair. And I’m not playing anymore.” Irene reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope, handing it to Mycroft. “A list of my requests and some ideas about my protection once they’re granted.” Mycroft opens the envelope to look at the folded paper inside. “I’d say it wouldn’t blow much of a hole in the wealth of a nation, but then I’d be lying.”

Iris doesn’t have to guess that the demands listed on that paper are quite extensive, Mycroft’s face giving that away at the first glance. 

“I imagine you’d like to sleep on it?” Irene offers, Mycroft still looking at the paper.

“Thank you, yes.” He says quietly, Irene quick to respond. 

“Too bad. Off you pop and talk to people.” Irene grins. Mycroft sits back in his chair, defeated.

“You’ve been very thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you.” John offers, looking about as beaten as Sherlock is in listening to this interaction. Irene smiles coyly from her seat.

“I can’t take all the credit, I had a bit of help. Jim Moriarty sends his love.” Irene nearly purrs at the name, Iris tensing next to John.

“Yes, he’s been in touch.” Mycroft adds. “Seems desperate for my attention, which I’m sure can be arranged.” Mycroft pulls out a pen and begins to sign whatever document lists Irene’s demands. She rises from her seat to move closer to Mycroft, leaning her hip closer to him.

“I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you?” Irene asks looking down at Mycroft. “The Ice Man,” She turns her head to Sherlock. “and the Virgin.”

John looks to Sherlock, silently fuming that there is exactly nothing he can do to fix this. Iris can see the wheels in Sherlock’s mind turning, and she wonders what he’s thinking.

“Jim didn’t even ask for anything, I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that’s my kind of man.” Irene adds. 

“And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees.” Mycroft stands, intending to hand the signed paper over to Irene. “Nicely played.” 

“No.” Sherlock responds from his place by the fire. 

Irene turns to him, “Sorry?” she asks.

“I said no. Very, very close, but no.” Sherlock turns away from the fire and stands, slowly crossing towards Irene. “You got carried away. The game was too elaborate, you were enjoying yourself too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much.” Irene counters, moving over towards the couch, standing just in front of the coffee table. 

“Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize entirely, but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” Sherlock closes the distance between himself and Irene.

“Sentiment? What are you talking about?” Irene asks.

“You.” Sherlock replies, causing Irene to take a step away.

“Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?”

Sherlock takes a step closer to Irene. “No.” He reaches with his hand for her wrist, leaning in close to her ear. “Because I took your pulse.” 

Iris looks at John just in time to see his eyes widen. Sherlock continues, speaking low and just barely loud enough for the others to hear. “Elevated. Your pupils dilated.” 

Sherlock moves past her to reach for the camera phone still on the desk. “I imagine John and Iris think love is a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements, but this, this is far more intimate. This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head.” Sherlock begins to slowly type on the camera phone. Iris and John stand as Sherlock continues to input the code. Irene seems to have lost the winning air she had before, suddenly looking very nervous.

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for. But you just couldn’t resist it, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.” Sherlock is about to press the final number, Irene reaching out to stop him, desperately looking into his eyes. 

“Everything I said, it’s not real. I was just playing the game.” She pleads.

“I know. And this is just losing.” Sherlock hits the last key, a soft ding illustrating that this is in fact the correct code. He turns the phone to Irene, a look of horror washing over her face. He holds the phone out to Mycroft, Iris moving closer to see the screen:

 _“I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED”_ answered with _“S H E R”_ reading _“I AM SHERLOCKED”_

So Irene really was interested in Sherlock? Iris wonders how much of this was truly a game, and how much was genuine attraction. Mycroft takes the newly opened camera phone as Sherlock walks towards the hallway. 

“There you are, Brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.” 

“I’m certain they will.” Mycroft’s spirits seem drastically lifted, immediately pulling out his own phone to start processing the vast archive of information he now has access to.

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up, otherwise let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her ‘protection.’” Sherlock heads towards his bedroom, Irene’s voice stopping him in the entryway.

“Are you expecting me to beg?” Irene has tears silently spilling over her cheeks.

“Yes.” Sherlock says without looking back.

“...Please. You’re right. I won’t even last six months.” Irene begs. Iris looks to John, who’s watching Sherlock throughout this interaction.

“I’m sorry about dinner.” Sherlock says quietly over his shoulder before turning down towards his bedroom and closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

“Now, Ms. Adler, if you’ll come with me.” Mycroft asks as he motions out the door. Irene stays glued to her spot on the floor, tears running down her face as she looks off where Sherlock just left. Finally, she reaches up to wipe her cheeks, grabs her purse on the desk, and quietly follows Mycroft out. Iris and John watch them go, unable to speak for a few solid minutes after. 

Eventually, John moves to the kitchen, grabs a bottle of scotch, and turns back to Iris.

“Drink?”

Iris shakes her head. “No, thank you. Though after all that? I could seriously go for one.” Iris blows out her sigh and moves to Sherlock’s empty armchair. John pours himself a drink and flops into his chair.

“Right, sorry, I remember you said you were sober.” John scolds himself.

“It’s fine, really... Just when I thought you and Sherlock couldn’t get more complicated or interesting, something like this happens and takes it to a whole new level.” Iris tries for a bit of humor, leading John to smile somewhat behind his drink.

“You’re telling me.” 

Iris ends up leaving John to his thoughts, not wanting to discuss too much about what just happened for fear of Sherlock hearing them down the hall. It seems like the case is closed, things are back where they need to be, and Irene Adler disappears away.

Iris doesn’t hear from either John or Sherlock for a few days until a later afternoon rain shower catches Iris off guard on her way back from work. A block from 221B, Iris nearly knocks herself over bumping into John, who’s also caught without an umbrella. They chuckle at the misstep but continue hurrying towards the front door. John goes for the door first, Iris noticing a figure standing under his umbrella outside Speedy’s café next door. John follows her gaze, realizing the figure is Mycroft, smoking a cigarette under the shield of his umbrella. 

“Mycroft, what are you doing out here?” Iris asks, stepping under the small awning trying to avoid the downpour.

“I was hoping to catch you both actually.” Mycroft takes a puff from a cigarette.

“You don’t smoke.” John observes, getting completely drenched in the rain.

“I also don’t frequent cafes.” Mycroft counters. He drops his cigarette and snuffs it out with his shoe, closing his umbrella and leading the two inside. It’s a small deli with a handful of booths in the back. Iris and John shake off as much water as they can by the welcome mat, eyeing each other wondering what Mycroft has to say. 

They both sit across from Mycroft in one of the empty booths. An older woman brings over three coffee cups, filling them up with hot coffee, Iris grateful for the warmth given her braided hair is almost completely soaked through. Mycroft pulls out a plastic pouch with some files and what looks like Irene’s camera phone inside of it.

“It’s the file on Irene Adler?” John asks, taking a sip of his coffee. 

“Closed forever.” Mycroft says happily. “I am about to go and inform my brother, or if you prefer, you two are, that she somehow got herself into a Witness Protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive and thrive, but he will never see her again.” 

“Why would he care?” John asks, looking down at the files. “He despised her at the end. Won’t even mention her by name, just The Woman.”

“Is that detestation or admiration?” Iris counters. “One of a kind, the one woman who matters?”

“He’s not like that. He doesn’t feel things that way... I don’t think.” John ponders, Iris sharing a look with Mycroft. 

“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?” Mycroft asks. 

“I don’t know.” John says plainly. Mycroft shrugs. 

“Neither do I. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate.” Mycroft adds, causing Iris to nearly snort into her coffee.

“A pirate? What an image.” Iris laughs, Mycroft smiling warmly. His smile fades as he looks down at the files in front of him.

“He’ll be okay with this, Witness Protection, never seeing her again, he’ll be fine.” John states, seeming sure of the answer.

“I agree. That’s why I decided to tell him that.” Mycroft admits, Iris realizing that this isn’t what actually happened to Irene Adler. 

“Instead of what?” John asks.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Iris asks quietly. John turns to look at her like that’s an absurd idea, looking back to Mycroft only to see him confirm it. 

“She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi and beheaded.”

“It was definitely her? She’s done this before.” John asks. 

“I was thorough this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me and I don’t think he was on hand, do you?” Mycroft says smugly. The façade drops and Mycroft slides the file forward, leaning his chin on his fist. “What shall we tell Sherlock?” 

John ponders the thought, looking from the file to Mycroft to Iris. Iris simply shrugs, unsure if they can actually pull off lying to Sherlock. 

“He’s Sherlock, so he could see right through it, or he could choose to just let it be and go along with it.” Iris thinks aloud. She looks to John. “Your call, I’ll lie if you think that’s best, but I think he’ll know.” Iris sips her coffee. John grabs the file and stands to leave. 

“I’ll tell him she’s in Witness Protection.” John declares, Iris nodding, starting to rise from her seat to follow. John holds a hand out slightly. “I think I’ll tell him on my own, don’t want him deducing the lie off of both of us together.” Iris sits back down, watching John grab his coat and exit back to 221B. Mycroft begins to gather his things and stand. Iris reaches into her pocket for a few pounds to pay for the coffee, Mycroft beating her to it.

“Thank you Mycroft.” Iris stands, a bit of awkward tension between them. 

“I appreciate your continued concern for my brother.” Mycroft offers quietly, making eye contact with Iris. 

“He and John have saved me from a few rather sticky spots, granted they were mostly the reason I was in any of those spots to begin with, but they’ve become good friends. I’m glad to lend a hand where I can.” Iris smiles warmly. 

Iris pulls her sopping coat off the rack by the door, allowing Mycroft to open the door for her as she jumps next door to 221B, avoiding getting more soaked than she already is.

Once out of the rain, Iris turns in the open doorway to watch Mycroft open his umbrella and walk off down the road. She closes the door and heads to her flat, wondering if Sherlock will buy the lie, and if ‘sentiment’ and ‘love’ really do mean as little to Sherlock as he says they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far! I personally would have loved to see the actual Cluedo game between John and Sherlock, but I'm happy with how the scene with Iris turned out :) 
> 
> What do you think so far? Hoping to edit and upload the next two chapters by the end of the week!


	6. The Hounds of Baskerville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!

The Woman never gets mentioned after Iris and Johns’ meeting with Mycroft, or at least they never bring her up. Sherlock seems unfazed by the news of Irene Adler moving into Witness Protection, so either John lied well enough for Sherlock to believe him, or Sherlock saw right through it and is choosing not to acknowledge it. Whatever his thoughts, Iris and John just let it be. They stay on alert for any more ‘danger nights’ but Sherlock keeps up with his nicotine patches and seems to be doing well. 

The month after Irene Adler’s case quiets down significantly with only a handful of clients bringing in half-interesting problems. Sherlock solves most of them within the first five minutes of talking to them, and the two cases that required any leg work ended with John and Iris in a cab heading back to Baker Street because Sherlock solved it before they could even catch up to him. John seems grateful for the lessened load, even joining Iris for lunch at Bart’s when Sherlock’s being particularly annoying. Iris’ job continues to be a good source of stability for her, and it secures her more time in London. 

Alfred continues to play phone tag with Iris, saying he’ll have information soon, but it’s too much for her to wait. Iris decides on one of her free Sundays to go into the main row of shops in the city and see if she can find a custom jewelry store on her own. Most are commercialized stores with manufactured goods that all look similar, not handmade like her necklace. Iris reaches up under her scarf, bundled up against a chilly early spring wind, and feels for the delicate chain at her neck. Ever since she can remember, Iris has had this necklace, and it’s always been a source of comfort; a way to acknowledge that her family is out there somewhere.

The search drags on most of the afternoon, Iris’ hopes falling as each hour passes. Seven shops later and Iris feels ready to give up. She then stumbles on a small antique store, not a jewelry store by any means as there’s furniture and clothing and lots of other old-fashioned knick-knacks, but something about the window dressings catches her eye. Iris enters the shop to find an older woman, maybe in her early seventies, sitting on a stool behind the counter, knitting. Iris looks around to see she’s the only one in the store, and it must have been that way for a while. The woman at the counter lights up when she sees Iris.

“Hello there!” She greets warmly, placing her knitting on the stool behind her as she stands, tossing her long, grey hair behind her shoulders. Iris smiles and walks up to her. “Looking for anything in particular dear?” The woman adjusts the bright green frames on the end of her nose.

“Well, I’m not sure if you’ll be able to help me, but I was wondering if you happened to sell any handmade jewelry here?” Iris pockets her gloves and unbuttons her coat in the warmth of the shop.

“We don’t have a large selection, but we do get a handful of donations of pieces that are handmade, did you have something specific in mind?” Iris smiles at the kind-heartedness radiating from this little old lady.

Iris reaches up and unclasps the necklace around her neck, holding it out in her open palm. “I’ve had this necklace for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been trying to find where it may have come from. I’ve had a few people look at it and they originally said there was a shop here in Central London that made them, but I’ve been having a hard time tracking down an actual store.” The woman leans in to look at the necklace in Iris’ hand, pushing her glasses further up.

“I see, well it is a lovely piece, definitely handmade. I feel like I’ve seen something similar, let me look.” The woman shuffles around to another counter across the store, Iris quietly following, and she bends down behind the glass to slide open the counter’s door. She pulls out a large velvet pallet full of necklaces of all shapes and sizes. From gold to silver to metals Iris can’t recognize, the collection is beautiful. The woman places the pallet on the counter and begins to search through, her wrinkled hands slowly pulling the chains apart to avoid tangling them. Iris leans forward to look closer, helping sift through the chains.

_Necklaces jumbled up and tangled in a small jewelry box. Iris sitting at her bright pink desk trying to untangle them all. Some boy band she used to love in middle school blasting on the tiny stereo next to her. Shouting from downstairs seeping through the relatively high volume setting, not quite drowning it out like she hoped it would._

Iris tries to shake off the memory of previous foster parents arguing, concentrating her eyes on the chains in front of her now.

“What about this?” The woman pulls out a silver necklace from the bunch, it’s a slightly different shape but the name looks stamped on in a similar fashion to Iris’. Iris holds her necklace out to compare. 

“The metals are different, but the letters look almost identical, the dot over the I’s in Felicity.” Iris’ heartbeat quickens.

“And the clasps here on the side are definitely the same handiwork, the way they curl over each other at the ends. Let me see the back of yours,” the woman asks as she reaches for a small loupe behind the counter. Iris holds out her necklace and she takes it to look under the light with the loupe, nodding after a moment. “Yes, and there’s a little symbol here on the back, I don’t quite know what, but I’d say it’s a branding of some kind. Let me check the silver one.” She hands Iris back her necklace and does the same inspection on the silver one. With a grin, she looks up at Iris. “Same mark!” She moves over the light so Iris can look, bringing her own necklace up in comparison. Iris smiles widely. 

“Any idea where you got the silver necklace?” Iris asks, clasping her necklace back on. The woman replaces the pallet behind the glass, keeping the silver necklace on the counter. 

“I have a ledger that keeps track of most donations, though that book’s been here since I opened this store nearly forty years ago...” She trails off. Iris’ heart drops, hiding her disappointment with a smile.

“I understand, that would be quite difficult to sift through.” The old woman sees Iris’ disappointment and shakes her head with a grin.

“Well, now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t try, dear. I do categorize things, so maybe there’s something.” The old woman picks up the necklace and shuffles back to her stool, reaching where Iris can’t see to pull out a giant old leather-bound ledger. 

With a heave, she places it on the counter with a thud. “Now, I can’t promise you an answer right now, but why don’t you leave your number with me, and I will see if I can’t place where that necklace came from. And I’ll even have my granddaughter when she comes in later today help me sort through the rest of the necklaces we have to see if we can’t find any other pieces like it. How does that sound?” She asks tenderly. Iris nods.

“That would be amazing. Thank you, so much.” Iris feels a swell of emotion, wondering if she’s really going to get a step closer to finding her birth family. Instinctually, Iris reaches up to fiddle with the necklace. “I believe my birth parents gave this to me when I was a child, it’s the only thing I’ve ever owned that I can’t remember getting, I’ve just had it.” Iris says with a chuckle. “I’m trying to find my birth family and this is the only thing I have that could lead me to them. It’s the tiniest of smallest possibilities, but...” Iris looks off, focusing on a chair to try not let the emotion get the better of her. The kind woman across the counter reaches over and places a frail hand on Iris’ shoulder.

“But you have to at least try, right?” Iris looks back, eyes glistening with tears, and smiles. The old woman leans back and lugs open the ledger. “Well then, we are going to try. Here,” she reaches over for a pad of paper and pen with a fake daisy glued to the end, passing it to Iris, “write down your name and number and I will call you the moment I find something.” Iris does so, passing the pad back to her. The woman looks down at Iris’ handwriting with a smile. “'Iris Moretti,’ that’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you. An old Italian lady at the orphanage gave it to me when the records they had didn’t list my full birth name. I think she said it has something to do with my dark hair.” Iris says bashfully, reaching for a strand. Realizing she doesn’t know the old woman’s name, she asks.

“Melinda Alcott. Pleased to meet you.” She offers her hand and Iris shakes it warmly. “Now, I will call you by the end of the week regardless of if I find anything, just so you’re not fretting too much, and sooner if I find something.” Melinda winks and Iris pulls out her gloves.

“Sounds amazing, I really can’t thank you enough. I’ve had a private investigator here looking into this for months now and he hasn’t found anything. One afternoon and I find you, things are looking great.” Melinda smiles at that. Iris starts to put on her gloves when the silver necklace on the counter catches her eye. “I’d actually like to buy that necklace, eventually, even if you can’t find anything from it, could you maybe put it on hold?” Melinda picks up the necklace and pulls out a small blue cloth bag. She slides the necklace into it and on the tag writes down Iris’ name and phone number. 

“There, I’ll use it as a reference against the other necklaces in the shop, and then it’ll be yours when we’re done.” 

“Thank you, Melinda, I appreciate it!” Iris finishes putting her gloves on and buttons up her coat in preparation for exiting the store. Iris leaves Melinda with a wave and an excitement in her heart. The cold hitting her face causes Iris to check her feelings, as this is still a longshot and she shouldn’t get her hopes up in case it all comes crashing down. iris settles on cautiously optimistic by the time she makes it back to Baker Street. She spends the evening buried in her notebook jotting down the day’s events and finding Melinda’s shop.

The next morning Iris decides to head up and say hello to John, wondering how his and Sherlock’s weekend has been. A short knock as she opens the door, a new level of familiarity as John has told her countlessly that she’s always welcome, but Iris still knocks just in case. John sits in his armchair working on his laptop, a cup of coffee next to him, and no sign of Sherlock. 

“Hiya John, Sherlock out this morning?” Iris looks down the hall before plopping down in Sherlock’s chair. John finishes reading the paragraph he was on, nodding before lowering the lid of his laptop slightly.

“Yep, off on some case he said he didn’t want my help on, and good thing, because he left before five in the morning.” John groans, causing Iris to laugh.

“Oh no, I’m much more of a nine or ten am girl myself, mornings any time before that and me don’t mix.” She teases. “Still been a quiet week?” 

“Yeah, this was the first bite in about two weeks- I think Sherlock’s losing it from the boredom.” John shrugs as he reaches for his coffee. “How about you?”

“Well, I gave up waiting to hear from Alfred and went looking at jewelry shops myself.” Iris leans back, wrapping her fleece cardigan around herself, crossing her ankle over her knee to aimlessly play with the shoelace of her black converse sneakers. She recounts her interaction with Melinda, John glad she’s finally got something new to go on.

“I hope she does, that sounds marginally better than where you were before, so that’s something... You know, I bet Sherlock would take the case, to find your birth parents.” John offers, causing Iris to chuckle.

“No, I don’t think this is something Sherlock can just deduce his way into a solution. This is decades old, and the only piece of evidence I have is a necklace. Can you imagine how bored he’d be going around to all the different jewelry stores in London? He’d run into oncoming traffic just to get away from it.” 

“Yeah, you may have a point, though he-” Before John can finish, Sherlock’s dramatic entrance into the flat interrupts him. Iris jumps in her seat, hand flying to her mouth to stifle the gasp as she looks Sherlock up and down. Drenched from head to toe in blood and carrying a large harpoon, Sherlock looks like something out of a horror film. Iris’s gasp turns into a full-out laugh when she realizes it’s Sherlock and not a psycho killer. 

“Well, that was tedious.” Sherlock spits out, little droplets of blood running down his face and onto his blood-spattered button-up shirt. 

“You went on the tube like that?!” John asks incredulously.

“None of the cabs would take me.” Sherlock groans.

“I would love to see you trying to hail a cab with that thing, is that an actual harpoon?” Iris asks, moving towards Sherlock to inspect it closer. Sherlock, exasperated, tosses the harpoon to Iris, who catches it instinctually. He turns on his heels and stalks off down the hallway.

“I need a case. Find me one!” He shouts right before slamming the bathroom door behind him. Iris looks to John, harpoon in hand, shrugging before finding a place for it to lean in the corner of the room near the fireplace. John opens his laptop fully and begins to search online while Iris grabs the papers on the desk and sits down to rifle through them for anything that might catch Sherlock’s interest. 

Sherlock returns from his shower, dressed in a clean button-up shirt and black slacks, his light blue dressing gown flapping behind him as he stalks about the room. He grabs for the harpoon, stabbing at the ground or tossing it between his hands in frustration as he paces.

“Nothing?” Sherlock looks between Iris and John, demanding with his look. 

“Military coup in Uganda.” John offers, reading from his laptop. Iris holds up one of the newspapers in front of her at the desk.

“Another photo of you with your deerstalker.” Iris teases, Sherlock rolling his eyes. 

“It’s not my hat!” He exclaims, Iris chuckling as she puts the paper down and picks up another section to search through. “How about a Cabinet reshuffle?” She offers, pulling the article out of the paper. 

“Nothing of importance, oh God!” Sherlock shouts with a loud bang of the harpoon on the floor. Iris is glad to be upstairs and not beneath their flat right now, wondering what was going on with all this racket. Sherlock pauses for a moment before looking at Iris, eyeing her up and down. Dissatisfied with her, he turns his laser focus to John. Seemingly a better target, Sherlock fires off his demand. “John, I need some. Get me some.” Iris rolls her eyes. 

“No.” John says simply, he and Iris having agreed no matter how much he begged or pushed neither would give in to give Sherlock any sort of drug, cigarette or stronger. 

“Get me some!” Sherlock demands again.

“No. Cold turkey we agreed.” John says, pointing directly at Sherlock.

“No matter what.” Iris adds, suddenly noticing how close she is to the business end of Sherlock’s harpoon. 

“Anyway, you’ve paid everyone off, remember?” John adds, picking up a newspaper next to him. “No one within a two-mile radius will sell you any.” 

“Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?” Sherlock asks in a near frenzy.

“Yours.” Iris answers with a laugh, earning a grin from John. Sherlock sighs before calling loudly for Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, leave her out of this, you know she won’t give you any either.” Iris adds, hoping Mrs. Hudson is out and not about to be yelled at for drugs by Sherlock.

Sherlock begins to tear apart the desk across from Iris, throwing papers and boxes into the air in a fit of trying to ‘find some.’ Thankfully he deposited the harpoon up against the window by the couch and farther away from Iris, who simply leans forward on her elbows. 

“Look, Sherlock, you’re doing really well, don’t give up now!” Iris says, hoping a bit of coddling will help here. It doesn’t.

“Tell me where they are!” Sherlock moves to the small stack of shelves by the couch, slamming open drawers and tossing more papers, generally making a mess of the place. “Please tell me!” he shouts while still bent down. Suddenly, Sherlock rises, puts on the saddest ‘puppy dog’ face Iris has ever seen, looking to Iris and saying sorrowfully, “Please.”

“I can see how you’d think that would work on me, but it doesn’t, Sherlock. When I was a teenager I invented the puppy dog eyes to get out of trouble with my foster parents, believe me, it doesn’t work on me.” Iris laughs, John merely looking back at his paper.

“Can’t help, sorry.” John says simply. 

“I’ll let you know next week’s lottery numbers.” Sherlock’s change in tactic is so swift, Iris struggles to keep up with him. John just chuckles from his chair. “It was worth a try.” Sherlock huffs. He looks to Iris. “What about you? I’ll give you the lottery numbers, for the next two weeks.” Iris shakes her head swiftly. 

“It wouldn’t be worth anything to me, I can’t even play in the lottery here Sherlock.” Iris tried to buy some scratchers with Mrs. Hudson once, only to learn Americans can’t play the lottery in Britain. Sherlock swears under his breath. Another flash and Sherlock flies past Iris, loudly thudding as he hits the ground in front of the fireplace by John. Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs, her cheery ‘yoo-hoo’ as she enters, looking around at the mess Sherlock’s made. 

“My secret supply, what have you done with my secret supply?” Sherlock demands with his head in the fireplace, moving to look under boxes and books nearby. Mrs. Hudson seems confused and doesn’t respond quickly enough for Sherlock. “Cigarettes, what have you done with them, where are they?” 

“You never let me touch your things!” Mrs. Hudson looks around at the clutter. “Oh, chance would be a fine thing.” Sherlock stands from his crouched position.

“I thought you weren’t my housekeeper.” He snarls out at her.

“I’m not.” Mrs. Hudson says sternly, looking to Iris who just watches Sherlock spiral from her seat. Sherlock huffs away, moving back to the couch, John motioning to Mrs. Hudson about maybe offering him a cup of tea. “How about a nice cuppa and perhaps you could put away your harpoon?” 

Iris turns to see Sherlock’s picked back up his very large weapon, turning sharply at Mrs. Hudson. The menace in his face matched with the menace of the harpoon is largely cut down by the fact that Sherlock wears his fluttering dressing gown. He almost looks like he’s trying to be a pirate now, Iris remembering back to Mycroft mentioning his favorite childhood pastime. 

“I need something stronger than tea.” Sherlock turns back to the window. He mutters, “Seven percent stronger,” under his breath, loud enough for Iris to hear.

“Hey, none of that shit, okay? We all agreed, cold turkey, you said no matter what we weren’t to give in. So this is us, not giving in. Figure out some other way to deal with whatever it is you’re dealing with, because you’re not getting anything.” Iris says sharply, taking Sherlock aback with her harshness. It does earn her a paused contemplation from Sherlock, but his brain shifts and locks in on Mrs. Hudson. He points the harpoon at her, a newly lit fire in his eyes. Mrs. Hudson jumps at the intense focus.

“You’ve been to see Mr. Chatterjee again.” Sherlock begins his deduction. Iris remembers the older man who works at Speedy’s downstairs. “Sandwich shop. That’s a new dress, but there’s flour on the sleeve. You wouldn’t dress like that for baking.” Iris rolls her eyes and looks to John who mutters out a low warning of Sherlock’s name. He ignores John. “Thumbnail. Tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don’t we?” Sherlock scolds. 

He takes a large inhale, smelling the air around him. “Mmm. Kashbah Nights. Pretty racy for a Monday morning, wouldn’t you agree?” Sherlock begins to move towards his chair, harpoon still in hand. “I’ve written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It’s on the website, you should look it up!” Sherlock places the harpoon on the wall behind Iris, looking out the window closest to his armchair. “Don’t pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee, he’s got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about.”

“Sherlock!” John and Iris scold at the same time, it seems their previous discussions of deductions like these not being everyone’s favorite has been lost on him. 

“Well, nobody except me.” Sherlock throws his hands up in mock defeat. Mrs. Hudson tries to hide her shock and upset at Sherlock.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I really don’t!” She cries as she leaves the flat, banging the door shut behind her. Sherlock climbs over the back of his chair to crouch down in a squat rather than actually sit like a normal human. Iris leans back in the desk chair right behind Sherlock, reaching out to whack him on the shoulder. Sherlock yelps in surprise, rubbing a hand where she hit him, before wrapping his arms around his knees, nearly buzzing with hyper energy.

“What the bloody hell was all that about?” John asks, throwing his paper down in exasperation.

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock mutters, now rocking himself in his seat, still perched on his feet. Iris thinks about smacking him again.

“You need to go after Mrs. Hudson and apologize.” Iris says firmly. Sherlock looks up angrily, glaring at Iris behind him.

“Apologize?!” He asks like that’s the strangest thing he’s ever heard. Sherlock looks to John next, who points out towards the door with his thumb trying to get Sherlock to actually go and apologize. Sherlock sighs. “Oh, I envy you both so much.” John shifts in his chair and props his chin on his hand as he leans on the armrest.

“You envy us?” John asks.

“Your minds, they’re so placid, straight forward, barely used.” Sherlock begins to explain. Iris interrupts as she leans forward in her chair.

“Hey, first of all, there’s no need to be rude. Second of all, I wish I barely used my brain.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Okay we may not be ‘Sherlock Holmes’ level of brainpower, but we’re not moronic robots. Our brains are as capable as a computer.” Iris feels this argument is pointless as Sherlock isn’t listening or caring at all at the moment.

“Mine is like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket, tearing itself to pieces on the launch pad. I need a case!” Sherlock exclaims.

“You’ve just solved one!” John shouts from his chair. “By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!”

“Oh, that was this morning.” Sherlock groans as he kicks his feet out from him to land butt-first in his chair. His fingers twitch and he stomps his feet alternatingly on the floor. “When is the next one?”

“Nothing on the website?” John tries, Sherlock rising to open his laptop on the desk. He pushes it into Iris’ view, walking away from it. Iris peers down at the page open on the screen. Sherlock begins to recite the post, mockingly, from memory.

“‘Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I can’t find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help?’” Sherlock paces behind his chair, John looking to Iris who is still reading the rest of the post.

“Bluebell?” John asks. Iris is about to answer the question when Sherlock shouts: “A rabbit, John!” 

“But there’s more, Sherlock.” Iris offers, pointing at the screen. “Before Bluebell disappeared-”

“It turned luminous! ‘Like a fairy,’ according to little Kirsty. Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone.” Sherlock finishes the thought, sarcasm and disdain dripping off each word. 

“Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry,” Iris reads, trying to figure out why this doesn’t catch Sherlock’s interest. Sherlock stops pacing abruptly, Iris turning to look at him.

“What am I saying, this is brilliant! Phone Lestrade.” Sherlock orders John. “Tell him there’s an escaped rabbit.” 

“Are you serious?” John asks.

“It’s this... or Cluedo.” Sherlock threatens, John abruptly standing up to set his laptop on the desk, shutting Sherlock down on that idea. 

“Ah, no, we are never playing that again.” John cautions, Iris remembering when the game’s board was still pinned to the wall with Sherlock’s knife. 

“Why not?” Sherlock asks innocently, like he’s somehow forgotten why.

“Because it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock. That’s why.” John explains, turning back to his chair. 

“It was the only possible solution.” Sherlock placates.

“It’s not in the rules.” Iris offers. 

“Well then, the rules are wrong!” Sherlock bellows.

The doorbell downstairs rings suddenly, Iris glad to see it’s back in working order after Sherlock shot it. Sherlock freezes, John holding a finger up.

“A single ring.” John describes, eyeing Sherlock carefully. 

“Maximum pressure, just under the half-second.” Sherlock deduces. The three share a look, then-

“Client!” They all shout. Iris is the first up, heading down to open the door. Standing on the step is a young man, similar in age to Iris, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. He asks if this is where he can find Sherlock Holmes, and Iris brings him right up.

They get him seated in John’s chair, Sherlock having ditched his dressing gown in place of his regular suit jacket. The man introduces himself as Henry Knight, explaining that he has a video he’d like to show them in hopes of setting up why he’s there to see them. Iris helps John locate the DVD player, opening the thin case Henry hands her and pressing ‘Play’ on the remote. Sherlock settles in his armchair, eyeing Henry, while John sits at the desk closest to Sherlock. Iris moves over to the seat across from John, leaning forward on the desk to watch.

A documentary-looking program begins to play on the screen, with a woman’s voice in narration. “Dartmoor, it’s always been a place of myth and legend, but is there something else lurking out here? Something very real.” There are images of ‘Keep Out’ signs and barbed wire around dark, dense forests. A woman appears, the narrator, walking down a long path towards the camera. “But, Dartmoor is also home to one of the government’s most secretive operations, the chemical and biological weapons research center, which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down.”

Iris begins to get a very ‘Area-51’ energy from this video, as the images of high-level security cameras and tall barbed-wire fences surround a very large set of buildings and property. A massive sign with the name ‘Baskerville’ flashes across the screen. The voice continues.

“Since the end of the Second World War, there have been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments. Genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield. There are many who believe that within this compound, in the heart of this ancient wildness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is, ‘Are all of them still inside?’”

Suddenly the screen shifts to an interview with Henry. “I was just a kid. It was out on the moor. It was dark, but I know what I saw.” Images of a drawing he made when he was nine crossfading over the screen, a terrifying dog-like monster with red eyes and huge teeth snarling off the page. “I know what killed my father.” Sherlock clicks off the television, done listening to the taped version of Henry’s story. 

“What did you see?” Sherlock asks. Henry stutters a bit, pointing back to the black television.

“Oh, I was just about to say...”

“Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing.” Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin, staring Henry down. Henry looks lost and scared, but he manages to continue.

“Yes. Sorry, yes, of course... Excuse me.” Henry reaches into his pocket for a napkin to blow his nose, fidgeting. 

“In your own time.” John says nicely, Sherlock right on his heels with, “But quite quickly.” 

“Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?” Henry asks nervously.

“No.” Sherlock replies shortly.

“It’s an amazing place, it’s like nowhere else, it’s sort of bleak, but beautiful.”

“Hm, not interested. Moving on.” Sherlock pushes. Iris gets the sense that Sherlock is about to kick Henry out for taking too long, his boredom rising by the second. 

“We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening, we’d go out onto the moor.” Henry inhales, about to start another sentence, when Sherlock interrupts again.

“Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed, where did that happen?” John looks over at Iris as she drops her forehead into the palm of her hand. She looks up and they share a look, silently wondering how much longer Henry has before he’s out on the street. Henry takes a bit to collect himself.

“There’s a place... it’s a sort of local landmark, called Dewer’s Hollow... That’s an ancient name for the devil.”

“So?” Sherlock asks plainly. 

“Did you see the devil that night?” Iris asks. Henry nods slightly, a soft ‘yes’ falling out. 

“It was... huge. Coal-black fur with red eyes.” Iris watches as John takes notes in his small notepad. “It got him. Tore at him, tore him apart... I can’t remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad’s body was never found.”

“Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous, dog? Wolf?” John tries to figure out, looking to Sherlock.

“Or a genetic experiment.” Iris offers, the video still on her mind. She means it seriously, but Sherlock snorts in disdain. 

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?” Henry asks angrily.

“Why, are you joking?” Sherlock replies sarcastically. 

“My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville. About the types of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously.”

“And I assume it did wonders for Devon tourism.” Sherlock mocks. John tries to change the subject, leaning forward in his chair.

“Henry, whatever did happen to your father, it was 20 years ago. Why come to us now?” John asks. Sherlock stares Henry down from his seat. 

“I’m not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so _funny.”_ Henry rises from his seat, Sherlock calling after him.

“Because of what happened last night.” 

“Why, what happened last night?” Iris asks, wondering what Sherlock knows. Henry pauses on his way to the door, turning back.

“How... how do you know?” 

“I didn’t know, I noticed.” Sherlock explains, Iris glad to see he’s actually admitting he doesn’t know something right off the bat. “You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning.” Iris’ gladness fades as she realizes he’s about to deduce this man’s whole life and it probably won’t be very nice. “You had a disappointing breakfast and a black coffee. The girl across the aisle fancied you. Though you were initially keen, now you’ve changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke, I’d be delighted.” 

Henry turns to John and Iris, John simply sighing and Iris offering a shrug. Henry moves back to the armchair, sitting down again. “How on Earth did you notice all that?”

“It’s not important.” John tries to derail Sherlock’s little game of deduction, but it’s no use, he’s zeroed in and not backing off. 

“Punched out holes where your ticket’s been checked.” Sherlock begins, John groaning.

“Not now, Sherlock.” Iris tries, only eliciting more annoyance from Sherlock.

“Oh please, I’ve been cooped up in here for ages!” Sherlock groans. 

“You’re just showing off.” John scolds him, but Sherlock doesn’t take the offense.

“Of course. I am a show-off, that’s what we do.” John looks away in defeat, Sherlock continuing. “Train napkin you used to mop up the spilled coffee. The strength of the stain shows that you didn’t take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and around your lips and sleeve. Cooked breakfast, or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich.”

Henry laughs half-heartedly. “How did you know it was disappointing?”

“Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl. Female handwriting’s quite distinctive, wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you, on the other side of the aisle. Later, after she got off, I imagine you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You’ve been over the last four digits yourself in another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now though you used the napkin to blow your nose, maybe you’re not that into her after all. 

“Then there’s the nicotine stains on your shaking fingers. Your shaking fingers. I know the signs.” Iris rolls her eyes at that. “No chance to smoke when on the train, no time to roll one before you got a cab here. It’s just after 9:15, you’re desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at 5:46am. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?” Sherlock ends with a flourish. Henry sits there, shocked.

“No. You’re right. You’re completely, exactly right.” Henry says, baffled. Iris leans forward to John.

“Remember when that was the most brilliant thing ever? Yeah, now it just makes my head hurt.” She teases, earning a grin from John behind his coffee mug. 

“It’s my job. Now shut up and smoke.” Sherlock says gruffly, leaning forward to Henry. Henry takes out a cigarette and his lighter, lighting it as John rifles through some of his notes.

“Henry, your parents both died, and you were what, seven years old?” John asks, Sherlock slowly rising from his seat as Henry takes his first puff. Smoke surrounding Henry, Sherlock invades his personal space to loudly sniff and inhale as much smoke as he can, sitting back down, satisfied. John doesn’t quite know how to continue after that, so Iris leans forward.

“That must be quite a trauma.” She offers sympathetically.

“Now, have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this-” Sherlock interrupts John yet again, more loud sniffing, eliciting a laugh from Iris. 

“You’re really that desperate Sherlock?” Iris asks under her breath with a laugh. Henry turns to John to answer his train of thought.

“That’s what Dr. Mortimer says.”

“Who?” John asks. At the same time as Henry, Sherlock says “Therapist.” Henry turns to Sherlock who simply shrugs with an “Obviously.”

“Louise Mortimer. She’s the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons.” Henry shakily takes another drag off his cigarette.

“What happened when you went back to Dewer’s Hollow last night, Henry?” Sherlock asks. “You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you’re consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?”

“It’s a strange place, the Hollow. It makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid...”

“Yes, if I wanted poetry, I’d read John’s emails to his girlfriends, much funnier.” Sherlock presses, Iris giggling.

“He’s got you there, John.” Iris adds, John rolling his eyes.

“I saw footprints. On the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart.” Henry explains.

“Man’s or a woman’s?” John asks.

“Neither. They were...” Henry trails off.

“Is that it? Nothing else? Footprints, is that all?” Sherlock asks, boredom dripping from his voice. Henry tries to justify himself.

“Yes. But they were-”

“No, sorry, Dr. Mortimer wins. It’s a childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring. Goodbye, Mr. Knight, thank you for smoking.”

“What about the footprints?” Henry asks. Sherlock sighs.

“Oh, they’re probably paw prints, could be anything, therefore nothing.” Sherlock leans forward. “Off to Devon with you and have a cream tea on me.” Sherlock rises from his chair, moving towards his room down the hall. Henry calls after him.

“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.”

The last word stops Sherlock mid-step in the kitchen. He turns around and moves closer to the living room. “Say that again.” He demands.

“I found footprints, they were big-”

“No, no, your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them.” Henry pauses in thought, then repeats what he said, word for word. Sherlock pauses, looking off, wheels turning in his head. “I’ll take the case.” He announces. John, baffled, wonders what changed. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, it’s very promising.”

“Sorry, what?” John asks again, both him and Iris watching Sherlock move about the room, fingers steepled under his chin. “A minute ago, footprints were boring, now they’re very promising?” 

“It’s got nothing to do with footprints. As ever John you weren’t listening. Baskerville. You ever heard of it?” 

“Vaguely. It’s very hush-hush.” John answers.

“First I’ve ever heard of it was that video, but then again I’m American.” Iris offers, wondering what similar government work is happening in the US.

“Sounds like a good place to start.” Sherlock announces, Henry sitting up excitedly.

“You’ll come down then?” Henry asks hopefully.

“No, I can’t leave London at the moment, far too busy.” Sherlock explains, Iris looking to John more confused than ever. Not even half an hour ago he was frantically bustling about bored out of his mind. “But don’t worry, I’m putting my best man onto it.” Sherlock walks over and claps John loudly on the shoulder. “I can always rely on John to send me the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t have a case! A minute ago you were complaining-”

“Bluebell, John, I’ve got Bluebell! The case of the vanishing glow-in-the-dark rabbit. NATO’s in uproar.” Sherlock explains to Henry, seriousness towards the subject quite off-putting given the mocking nature of how Sherlock felt earlier. 

“Sorry, so you’re not coming then?” Henry asks, very perplexed. Sherlock pouts a lip and shakes his head to John, who pauses for a moment trying to read Sherlock’s face. Iris realizes what Sherlock must be playing at, John arriving at the same conclusion as her. 

“Okay. Fine. Iris.” John looks to Iris who’s already out of her seat and heading for the skull on the mantel. Sherlock never let slip who the skull actually belonged to, Iris choosing to name it Yorick for the irony. She lifts it up to reveal a packet of cigarettes, the one and only pack in the entire building, as agreed upon by her and John. She grabs the carton and tosses it to John at the desk. He offers it to Sherlock who simply takes the pack and tosses it onto the couch. 

“I don’t need those anymore, I’m going to Dartmoor.” Sherlock announces. “You go on ahead, Henry, we’ll follow later.” 

“I’m sorry, so you are coming?” Henry rises and moves to follow Sherlock out the door. 

“Twenty-year-old disappearance, a monstrous hound? I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Sherlock exclaims, moving down to his bedroom to pack a bag. Henry offers his thanks and gives John his card saying he’ll see them at Dartmoor later that day.

“I guess he’s got a case now.” Iris says as she and John stare off down the hallway to Sherlock.

“I guess we’re going to Dartmoor.” John sighs. He turns to Iris. “Only if you want to come though, who knows what’ll happen... but you know it’ll be interesting.” Iris smiles.

“I’ll meet you out front in five.” Iris hurries down the stairs excitedly, grateful that of all weeks for her lab to be closed for maintenance they chose this one. 

Unsure of how long they’ll be there or what exactly they’ll be doing, Iris packs a variety of pieces that could be used multiple ways. She grabs her good sturdy pair of boots, not quite sure how ‘moorish’ this moor will be. In less than five minutes she has her small duffel bag and black messenger bag packed, coat on, leaving out the front door with John and Sherlock. 

Sherlock moves to hail a cab, John gathering the bags on the curb. Iris hears shouting from Speedy’s next door, looking in to see Mrs. Hudson shouting at Mr. Chatterjee, a loud thud as she throws a giant head of lettuce at the window, narrowly missing his head. Iris turns to John, who’s heard the same thing.

“Looks like Mrs. Hudson finally got to the wife in Doncaster.” John observes.

“Wait until she finds out about the one in Islamabad.” Sherlock adds. Iris whacks him gently on the arm, trying to hide her laugh.

“I will never stop wondering how you figure all that out.” Iris teases, helping John and Sherlock load their bags into the back of the waiting taxi. The ride is easy to the Paddington train station, everyone buying their tickets for the next train to Exeter and climbing aboard on their designated track. 

The ride takes a few hours, the three finding a window seat with a table between them. John pulls out his notebook while Sherlock chooses to stare out the window in thought. Iris splits her time between looking out the window at the rolling fields and beautiful countryside and her own journal. She thinks back to meeting Melinda the day before, hoping she’ll help her find another clue towards locating her birth family, glad to have the distraction of Henry’s case to focus on while she waits. She sketches out the silver necklace with the name ‘Felicity’ on it, matching her own as she fiddles with it in her other hand.

They arrive in Exeter and Sherlock rents a car; it’s a bulky jeep Iris never would have picked, but once she sees the countryside out the windows she realizes it was a good choice. Sherlock drives, Iris sitting in the back so John can navigate from the front seat. John has a handful of maps in his lap, Iris leaning forward from the middle seat to help figure out where they’re going. It’s not a long ride to the outskirts of Baskerville, forests of trees and gigantic rock formations look beautiful if only Iris could get the image of a terrifying beast lurking in the moor out of her head.

Nearing the outskirts of Baskerville, the trio park on the side of the road to try and orient themselves with the moor Henry described. Iris and John stand off consulting the maps while Sherlock disappears from their view. John points out to a long fence across the field, Iris squinting in the sun to follow his finger. Off in the distance is the government facility Henry’s video pictured, now minuscule being so far away. John turns around to point out Grimpen Village behind them, the small town Henry said would be a good place to start, and where their hotel is. 

Looking between Baskerville and Grimpen Village, John turns the map slightly in his hand. He looks off to the left of Baskerville.

“That must be Dewer’s Hollow.” Sherlock’s voice above them startles Iris, who looks up to see Sherlock standing at the top of a very massive rock formation. How he got up there, Iris has no idea.

“What’s that?” He calls, pointing out to the fence nearly a mile away from them. John pulls out a small pair of binoculars he bought with the maps and looks out. Satisfied with what he found, he hands the binoculars to Iris, who peers through them and sees giant signs scattered across the field with skulls and crossbones on them.

“A minefield it looks like.” John calls up to Sherlock. “Technically, Baskerville’s an army base, so I guess they’ve always been keen to keep people out.” Iris hands the binoculars back to John, closing her coat closer to her against the wind. Iris shields the sun with her hand as she looks back up to Sherlock, his long Belstaff coat flowing behind him and his collar popped up against the wind as he stands looking out over the area. 

They climb back into the car and head a few miles down to Grimpen Village, a quaint cluster of buildings and shops, The Cross Keys Hotel being their next stop. Iris notices a large tour group walking from the hotel, listening intently to their tour guide. Sherlock pulls around to the back to park and they clamber out to head in towards the front desk. As they pass the tour group, they overhear the tour guide. “Don’t be a stranger, and remember, stay away from the moor at night, if you value your life!” Iris notices a large sandwich board with ‘Beware the Hound’ painted along with a menacing-looking black creature. 

Sherlock disappears, again, leaving John and Iris to check in. The gentleman at the front desk has a thick accent Iris can’t quite place, but he helps them swiftly. Iris books a single bed for herself, the owner apologizing to John for not having a double room for him and Sherlock. John starts to explain that he and Sherlock are not gay, but realizing the futility lets it go.

Iris peers through a few doorways, one leading to the small dining area with a wood-burning fireplace, another has more bar-like seating, as she searches for Sherlock. She rejoins John at the desk as he orders two pints for him and Sherlock, and a club soda for Iris.

“We couldn’t help noticing, on the map of the moor, a skull and crossbones?” Iris asks as the man hands her the key to her room, moving to the bar taps to fill their drinks.

“Oh, that...” He trails off, Iris looking to John wondering what that pause means.

“Pirates?” John jokes, hoping a little humor will help.

“Er, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it. It’s not what you think. It’s the Baskerville testing site. It’s been going for eighty-odd years. I’m not sure anyone really knows what’s there anymore.” He loudly whispers that last part, Iris finding Sherlock as he walks back into the lobby, still exploring.

“Explosives?” Iris asks.

“Oh, not just explosives. Break into that place and if you’re lucky, you just get blown up, so they say.” Iris reminds herself not to break into Baskerville, as that does not sound pleasant. The man continues, saying at least it helps tourism in the area, so “Thank God for the demon hound!”

“Have you seen the demon hound?” John asks, the man shaking his head. 

“Me? No, no. Fletcher has.” He points out the open door to the tour guide from outside, who’s folding up his sign and checking his phone. Sherlock takes off after him. “He runs the walks, the monster walks for the tourists, you know. He’s seen it.”

Iris watches as Sherlock leaves, deciding to follow him out to the front of the small hotel. A smattering of picnic tables with umbrellas makes up the ‘outside dining’ area of apparently a ‘Vegetarian Cuisine’ style restaurant. 

Sherlock watches Fletcher from across the way, then reaches over to some half-empty glasses on the table next to him, grabbing one like it’s his and walking towards Fletcher’s table. Iris decides to check her phone, letting whatever Sherlock’s planning happen on its own. 

A few missed texts from Sam, and still no call from Melinda. Iris responds to Sam, briefly detailing the current adventure she’s been swept up in, and puts her phone away as John exits. He carefully balances all three of their drinks, Iris swiftly grabbing hers before he drops them all. They walk over to join Sherlock at the table just as Fletcher looks ready to walk away. John starts to speak, but Sherlock interrupts him.

“Bet’s off, sorry.” Sherlock says, John looking confused. Fletcher turns his head.

“Bet? Wait, what bet?” Fletcher asks, intrigued.

“Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn’t prove you’d seen the hound.” Sherlock explains, Iris catching on before John can.

“Yeah, the guy at the bar said you could.” Iris adds, taking a sip of her soda. 

“Well, you’re going to lose your money, mate.” Fletcher says smugly. Sherlock chuckles. “Yeah. I seen it.” Fletcher’s accent is similar to the man from the front counter, a mix between Scottish and Irish or at least that’s what Iris’ unfamiliar ear thinks. “Only about a month ago. Up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind, couldn’t make much out.” 

“I see. No witnesses, I suppose.” Sherlock groans.

“Never are.” Iris teases playfully, annoying Fletcher enough to pull out his phone and look for a specific picture. He turns it for them to see, a blurry outline similar to those ‘Bigfoot’ photos always seen online. Sherlock laughs at the image.

“Is that it? It’s not exactly proof, is it? Sorry, John, I win.” Sherlock goes for his drink.

“Wait, wait, that’s not all. People don’t like going up there, you know. To the Hollow... Gives them a bad sort of feeling.” Fletcher says quite dramatically, causing even Iris to chuckle at the lunacy of it all. 

“Ooh, is it haunted?” Sherlock mocks. “Is that supposed to convince me?” 

“Nah, don’t be stupid! Nothing like that. But I reckon there is something out there. Something from Baskerville, escaped.” Fletcher uses his best ‘scary’ voice to convince them.

“A clone? A super-dog?” Sherlock asks annoyedly.

“Maybe. God knows what they’ve been spraying on us all these years, or putting in the water. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could spit.” Fletcher warns warily.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Sherlock pushes, Iris watching as his disbelief spurs Fletcher to reveal all the information he has. Fletcher ponders for a moment before continuing, his voice lowered as he begins his story.

“I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishing, but he never showed up. Well, not till late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. ‘I’ve seen things today, Fletcher,’ he said, ‘that I never want to see again. Terrible things.’ He’d been sent to some secret army place. Porton Down, maybe. Maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else. In the labs there, the really secret labs, he said he’d seen terrible things. ‘Rats as big as dogs,’ he said. ‘And dogs,’” Fletcher pauses as he reaches into his bag, pulling out a massive piece of concrete-looking molding. The mold is of a massive paw print, Iris first thinks it’s just a bear print, but the pads and nails are almost identical to that of a dog. “‘Dogs the size of horses.’”

They all sit there, staring at this massive paw print. Fletcher seems proud of finally eliciting a look of shock from them all. Maybe there’s more to this than Iris first thought...

“Um, we did say 50.” John breaks the silence, motioning out his hand. Iris chuckles.

“Yeah, 50 quid, pay up Sherlock.” Iris adds, finishing her drink and setting it down. Sherlock, quite annoyed, opens up his wallet and hands John the money. Fletcher leaves them, Sherlock standing and walking to the car. John and Iris follow, pulling the map back out as they make their way to Baskerville.

As they pull up, signs loom over them, explicitly saying ‘Authorized Personnel Only,’ making Iris wonder how the hell they’re actually going to get in, but Sherlock seems determined. Sherlock and John have credentials that hold some weight to them, John’s military background for sure having some pull, but Iris? She has no idea how they’ll just let her in.

Men in uniform carrying automatic rifles stop them at the gate, dogs sniffing the car as a man approaches Sherlock’s window.

“Pass, please.” He asks. Sherlock produces an ID and hands it over. “Thank you.” He leaves to run the card through the security system.

“You’ve got ID for Baskerville? How?” John asks.

“It’s not specific to this place. It’s my brother’s. Access all areas. I, um...” Sherlock pauses. “I acquired it ages ago. Just in case.”

“You’re going to pretend to be Mycroft?” Iris asks, stunned. 

“Brilliant.” John groans.

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asks, unsure of why they distrust his plan.

“We’ll get caught.” John exclaims.

“No, we won’t! Well, not just yet.” Sherlock’s plan seems to be go in and get as much information before promptly being kicked out. Iris doesn’t think they’ll just ‘kick’ them out. 

“Hi, we thought we’d have a wander around your top-secret weapons base. Really? Great. Come in, kettle’s boiled.” John mocks, severely disliking this plan.

“That’s if we don’t get shot.” Iris adds, an idea popping into her head. She pulls the hair tie off of her wrist, twisting her hair that was just loose on her shoulders back into a low bun. She buttons the top two buttons of the collared shirt she paired under her favorite burgundy sweater for a more ‘business casual,’ before reaching into her bag for her notebook and pen. Maybe she will have an identity that will actually help.

The man returns the ID to Sherlock as the gates swiftly open. 

“Mycroft’s name literally opens doors.” John says, astonished.

“You said he works for the government?” Iris asks, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear and tightening the bun.

“He practically is the British Government.” Sherlock answers. “I reckon we’ve got about twenty minutes before they realize something is wrong.”

Sherlock drives the jeep into the heart of Baskerville, parking just outside the front offices. They climb out, Iris trailing closer to Sherlock as they walk towards the door. An armored vehicle stops just next to them as they walk, a young uniformed soldier jumping out and catching up to them.

“What is it? Are we in trouble?” He asks, hurriedly.

“Are we in trouble, _sir._ ” Sherlock responds curtly. They stop just before the offices, the soldier apologizing. “You were expecting us?” 

“Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security.” He introduces himself. Iris flanks Sherlock to his left, opening her notebook and looking busy, pulling out her phone as well, though not unlocking the screen. “Is there something wrong, sir?” Lyons asks.

“I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.” Sherlock’s impression of Mycroft’s uptight manner is almost spot on, Iris internally chuckling at the comparison.

“It’s just that we don’t get inspected here. You see, sir, it just doesn’t happen here.”

“Ever heard of a spot check?” John offers, his shoulders pulled back into the ‘Captain Watson’ Iris has only seen on a few specific occasions, most memorably that night at the pool with Moriarty. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Seems he’s using his rank here to their advantage. He pulls out his ID and Lyons salutes him firmly, John returning the gesture. 

“Sir. Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you both.”

“I’m afraid we won’t have time. We need the full tour and then Mr. Holmes has other appointments to get to this afternoon.” Iris pipes in from her spot behind Sherlock. She pockets her phone and flips through a few pages, looking up at Corporal Lyons. Somehow, in the split second before she opened her mouth, the English accent she used when the Americans had her and Mrs. Hudson decided to reappear. Thankfully neither John nor Sherlock gave her away with a look of surprise, Lyons simply looking between them, unsure of what to do.

“Yes, the full tour. That’s an order, Corporal.” John presses, causing Lyons to move into action.

“Yes, sir.” He turns and leads them to the front door. Lyons swipes his ID card in a reader, stepping aside for Sherlock to do so with his. The light on the screen turns green, and the door opens. They step inside and follow Lyons down a long hallway. Out of earshot from the Corporal, Sherlock says under his breath, “Nice touch,” to John.

“Haven’t pulled rank in ages.” John adds. “Quite enjoyed that.” He smirks, looking to Iris with a grin.

“Quick thinking, Iris.” Sherlock praises, unable to say more as they reach another door they must swipe cards to enter. Green lights grant them more access, this time into an elevator. They take it down three flights, opening to a bright white laboratory. Scientists in lab coats move about under the harsh fluorescent lighting, large cages sitting in the middle of the room. Monkeys screech from inside the cages, clambering to the bars and reaching out their little hands trying to grab at Iris as she passes. 

“How many animals do you keep down here?” Sherlock asks, stepping away just in time to avoid a monkey nearly grabbing his coat. 

“Lots, sir.” Lyons responds. Iris watches as dozens of scientists flit about from station to station, some exiting rooms wearing menacingly large gas masks.

“Any ever escape?” Sherlock asks, Lyons smiling slightly.

“They’d have to know how to use that lift, sir. We’re not breeding them that clever.” Lyons responds, Iris smiling at a beagle that passes, smile fading as she tries to avoid thinking about whatever it is they’re going to do to it. The labs she’s worked in both in NYC and at Bart’s have departments that use animals for testing, but it’s mostly just rats.

An older gentleman approaches the group, graying hair and white lab coat underneath a hazmat suit zipped up to just under his necktie. He looks at them quizzically as he moves the gas mask in his hand to under his arm.

“Ah, and you are?” He asks, his height looming even over Sherlock.

“It’s all right, Dr. Frankland, I’m just showing these people around.” Lyons explains.

“Ah, new faces, how nice.” Dr. Frankland says with a smile. “Careful you don’t get stuck here, though, I only came to fix a tap.” He jokes before walking away. 

“So what exactly is it that you do here?” John asks as they continue farther into the lab.

“I thought you’d know, sir, this being an inspection.” Lyons responds, Iris peering at the rats in glass boxes as she passes. 

“Well, I’m not an expert, am I?” John retorts. 

“Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, sir.” Lyons explains, approaching another monitored door.

“But mostly weaponry?” John asks. “Biological, chemical?”

“Of one sort or another, yes. One war ends, another begins, sir.” Lyons swipes his card, Sherlock following. “New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared.” He adds. Mycroft must not have caught on yet, because the ID continues to work, green lights sending them on. 

Double doors open to a smaller lab, a monkey secured by a leash sitting on a table between two scientists. One of them, a middle-aged woman with a clipboard, leaves the monkey as Corporal Lyons calls out to her.

“Dr. Stapleton?” Lyons calls, Iris stopping mid-step. Sherlock repeats the name as they walk. Iris pushes away the memories that start to flash before her as they continue into the room.

“Yes? Who’s this?” Dr. Stapleton asks, looking up from her clipboard. 

“Priority Ultra, ma’am, orders from on high. An inspection.” Lyons explains.

“Really?” Dr. Stapleton looks unsure of them.

“We are to be accorded every courtesy, Dr. Stapleton. What’s your role at Baskerville?” Sherlock asks, eliciting a laugh from the doctor.

“Accorded every courtesy, isn’t that the idea?” John furthers. 

“I’m not free to say. Official secrets.” Dr. Stapleton fires back.

“Oh, you most certainly are free, and I suggest you remain that way.” Sherlock says with a very clear threat laced in his tone. Dr. Stapleton pauses for a beat before responding. 

“I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up. Genes, mostly. Now and again, actual fingers.” Dr. Stapleton explains. Iris opens up to a clean page in her notebook, writing out ‘Bluebell’ across the length of it. She taps Sherlock on the shoulder, as he remembers where he’s heard the name before. Iris offers her notebook to him, he takes it and turns to the doctor.

“Stapleton! I knew I knew your name. People say there’s no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead.” He turns the notebook around and holds it up for Dr. Stapleton to read. Sherlock watches her face intently, taking in every bit of her reaction.

“Have you been talking to my daughter?” Dr. Stapleton asks angrily. 

“Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?” Sherlock asks, handing the notebook back to Iris. John looks at the page as it passes him, looking back at Iris.

“The rabbit?” John asks, wondering how on earth they got back to the rabbit of all things.

“Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive. Clearly an inside job.” Sherlock deduces, John still unsure how they’ve circled back to the rabbit from earlier that morning. “Why? Because it glowed in the dark?”

“ I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Who are you?” Dr. Stapleton demands. Sherlock checks his watch, Iris looking down at hers realizing their time must be up.

“We’ve seen enough for now. Thank you so much, Corporal.” Sherlock says, turning towards the door. 

The Corporal watches him, “That’s it?” he asks.

“That’s it. It’s this way, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks as he walks, John and Iris turning quickly to follow. Dr. Stapleton calls after them but Sherlock ignores her.

“Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?” John asks hurriedly as the three make it through the double doors back to the secure door. Sherlock swipes his card, the Corporal running to catch up and swipe his. They make it back to the lab and across the floor to the elevator. Sherlock’s phone beeps as they walk, he checks it with a smirk. 

“Ha! Twenty-three minutes. Mycroft’s getting slow.” Sherlock swipes his card quickly, the Corporal following, the door opens to Dr. Frankland standing in the elevator. 

“Hello, again.” He says with a grin. They all climb into the elevator and take it up to the long hallway they first came through. This time, when the doors open, a very angry man stands in their path. He wears a uniform but must be a rank above the Corporal, who tenses at the sight of him. Iris starts wondering all the different ways this will go quite badly.

“This is bloody outrageous! Why wasn’t I told?” He demands.

“Major Barrymore, is it? Yes, well, good. Very good, we’re very impressed, aren’t we Mr. Holmes?” John asks as he holds his hand out for a firm shake. Sherlock’s phone beeps again.

“Deeply. Hugely.” Sherlock adds a smile, skirting around the Major, Iris following closely, keeping her eyes focused on her notebook.

“The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense!” Major Barrymore shouts as they make their way to the end of the long hallway. 

“I’m so sorry, Major. New policy. Can’t remain unmonitored forever, goodness knows what you’d get up to. Keep walking.” Sherlock adds quickly to John who lagged behind. Iris keeps her head down and hopes the Major won’t try and question her. 

Suddenly, Corporal Lyons calls out and hits a button on the wall, sounding an alarm and locking the front door the three were almost at. 

“ID unauthorized sir.” He jogs down the hallway to them. “I’ve just had the call.” Major Barrymore turns on them angrily.

“Is that right? Who are you?” He inquires angrily. 

“Look, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake.” John tries to explain, as they watch Sherlock hand over the ID.

“Clearly not Mycroft Holmes.” Major Barrymore says furiously, landing his eyes on Iris.

“This is Mr. Holmes, sir, he has other appointments to get to, really this is all some sort of mistake, the ID is valid, of course he’s authorized.” Iris tries to sound as professional and British as she can, checking her watch and notebook to seem ‘official.’

“Computer error, Major. It’ll all have to go in the report.” John tuts, managing to stay calm as the alarm still sounds over them.

“What the hell is going on?!” Major demands loudly, Dr. Frankland suddenly next to him, looking towards Sherlock curiously.

“It’s all right, Major, I know exactly who these gentlemen are. I’m getting a little slow on faces, but Mr. Holmes here isn’t someone I expected to show up in this place.” Sherlock starts to interrupt him, trying to cut him off before he reveals his true identity. Dr. Frankland pushes on with a smile as he reaches out his hand. “Good to see you again, Mycroft.” Sherlock pauses before accepting the shake with a small smile. “I had the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes at the WHO conference in, Brussels, was it?” Dr. Frankland looks to Sherlock.

“Vienna.” Iris adds in, flipping back to earlier pages in her journal before looking up again. “Yes, Vienna. Brussels was the Charity Gala.” Iris eyes Major Barrymore from behind Sherlock.

“Vienna, that’s it. This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Major. There’s obviously been a mistake.” Dr. Frankland says assuredly. Major Barrymore seems unconvinced, but nods to the Corporal to turn off the alarm and let them through. Dr. Frankland shows them out, the three of them quickly exiting the building. Once out of earshot, Sherlock thanks him for the help.

“This is about Henry Knight, isn’t it? I thought so. I knew he wanted help, but I didn’t realize he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!” Dr. Frankland looks between them. “Oh, don’t worry, I know who you really are. I’m never off your website.” He says excitedly, then adds. “I thought you’d be wearing the hat.”

“That wasn’t my hat.” Sherlock complains as they continue to the car. 

“I hardly recognize him without the hat.” Dr. Frankland laughs.

“It wasn’t my hat.” Sherlock says strongly, though Dr. Frankland doesn’t seem to care.

“I love the blog, too, Dr. Watson. The pink thing, and that one about the aluminum crutch.” Dr. Frankland turns to Iris. “I don’t know who you are though, definitely not Mycroft’s assistant, isn’t that Anthea?” Iris puts her journal away, the part having been played through.

“I’m technically their neighbor, but I’ve been swept up in enough of their adventures that they’ve started inviting me along before I get kidnapped or knocked out. I appreciate the heads up now, and I get to help when I can.” Iris teases, accent dropping back to normal.

“And you’re American, how exciting, you know I once was-” Dr. Frankland starts, Sherlock interrupting him.

“You know Henry Knight?” Sherlock asks, stopping in front of the jeep.

“Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend.” Dr. Frankland puts his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. He turns to look over his shoulder, Iris noticing Major Barrymore watching them from afar. “Listen, I can’t really talk now. Here’s my cell number.” Dr. Frankland offers his business card to Sherlock, who pockets it in his jacket. “If I can help with Henry, give me a call.”

“I never did ask, Dr. Frankland, what exactly is it that you do here?” Sherlock asks.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you, but then, of course, I’d have to kill you.” Dr. Frankland breaks out into a huge grin. Iris laughs at his joke, watching Sherlock’s reaction.

“That would be tremendously ambitious of you.” Sherlock says bluntly. “Tell me about Dr. Stapleton.” Sherlock shifts gears, John looking to Iris, wondering how Henry Knight and a glowing rabbit connect. Dr. Frankland pauses before responding.

“I never speak ill of a colleague.”

“But you’d speak well of one, which you’re clearly omitting to do.” Sherlock deduces.

“I do seem to be, don’t I?” Dr. Frankland says his goodbyes and walks away.

“What was all that about the rabbit?” John asks, finally just the three of them. Sherlock doesn’t respond but pops the collar on his Belstaff coat dramatically. John stops before he opens the door. “Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?” Sherlock looks at him from across the hood, confused.

“Do what?” 

“You being all mysterious with your... cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.” John stumbles over what he’s trying to get at, Iris smirking next to him. John starts to climb in the car, Iris making eye contact with Sherlock.

“I don’t do that.” Sherlock calls out, aghast at even the thought of him doing so. 

“He does look kinda cool, you’ve got to admit it.” Iris teases John with a smile as she fastens her seatbelt. John simply rolls his eyes in the rearview mirror, Sherlock smirking.

“So, the email from Kirsty. The missing luminous rabbit.” John starts as they make their way out of Baskerville.

“Kirsty Stapleton, whose mother specializes in genetic manipulation.” Sherlock adds, Iris unbuttoning the first two buttons on her collar, letting her hair out of the bun as they talk.

“So she made her daughter’s rabbit glow in the dark?” John asks.

“Probably a fluorescent gene, removed from one specimen and then spliced into another.” Iris adds, earning a questioning look from Sherlock in the rearview mirror. “What? Both labs I’ve worked in are looking into gene manipulation. It’s simple enough these days, though I’m not working at this scale of specimen.” Iris adds, wondering what else scientists have achieved in this line of study.

“So we know that Dr. Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is, has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?” Sherlock thinks aloud.

“To be fair, that is quite a wide field.” John adds jokingly.

They make their way to Henry Knight’s house, Iris’ jaw dropping at the magnitude of the home. Large stone with intricate towers and architecture looms over them as they enter through a windowed front lawn area. Henry answers the door to let them in, John and Iris looking around at the vast array of paintings and furniture, all greatly outweighing anything Iris has seen since arriving in England. John seems just as taken aback.

“Henry, are you... are you rich?” He asks, Henry looking around.

“Yeah.” He answers plainly, Iris wondering why Henry lives in this giant house all by himself. She tries to imagine what life must have been like for him after his father died when Henry was so young. 

Iris follows them down the hallway into the kitchen. Henry puts on a kettle of water to make some coffee, pulling out mugs and saucers for everyone. Iris sits next to John on one end of the bar, Sherlock sitting on the other end closer to Henry. The water boils and they each doctor their own cups, Sherlock, Henry, and Iris taking sugar, while John drinks his black. Henry speaks as they do so.

“There’s a couple of words, that I keep seeing. ‘Liberty,’ and ‘In.’” Iris watches as John pulls out his notebook and jots them down. Henry moves to put something away in a cupboard, John leaning towards Sherlock.

“Mean anything to you?” John asks.

“‘Liberty in death,’ isn’t that the expression? The only true freedom?” Sherlock asks. Henry returns to the breakfast bar, looking out the large glass-paned windows behind them.

“What now, then?” Henry asks, Sherlock finishing his coffee as John speaks.

“Sherlock’s got a... plan?” John sounds hesitant. Sherlock puts his cup down with a grin.

“Yes. We take you back out onto the moor, and see if anything attacks you.” Sherlock says in his very blunt ‘Sherlock’ way, eliciting a groan from John and an eye roll from Iris. “That should bring things to a head.” He adds cheerfully. Henry’s turned white as a sheet.

“At night? You want me... to go out there, at night?” Henry asks, petrified.

“That’s your plan? Brilliant.” John mocks, finishing his coffee and setting it down.

“That’s not a plan, Sherlock.” Iris adds from her spot next to John.

“Got any better ideas? If there is a monster out there, there’s only one thing to do. Find out where it lives.” Sherlock turns back to Henry with a grin, like everything will be fine, like they won’t find some monstrous beast waiting for them in the dark that night.

They pass the rest of the late afternoon in a general awkwardness, Iris trying to lighten the mood by asking for a tour of the house and the surrounding grounds. Henry seems grateful for the distraction, Sherlock on his phone scrolling through who knows what as they walk about the land. The sun begins to set and they climb into the car, heading off to the moor. They bring flashlights, Iris choosing to leave her bag in the car, just in case she has to run it won’t weigh her down.

With the sun setting, not only does the temperature drop but so does the general mood and morale. Henry nearly vibrates with fear, Iris following him trying to keep him calm. The walk takes them a solid half-hour of traipsing over rocks and down crooked paths covered with trees. A rustling in the bushes near her and John stop them, though Sherlock and Henry continue forward. 

John steps in front of Iris as they move behind a tree, flashlights scanning the nearby ground. Nothing comes from their search, but now Iris and John can’t see Sherlock or Henry. With no clear path to follow them, they make a wrong turn and pause to try and figure out where they are. John looks off in the distance, Iris trying to follow his gaze. A light flashes far off across a large field. They move a bit closer, John watching the light intently.

“U... M... Q... R... A...” John jots down the letters in his notebook, Iris holding her flashlight so he can see it in the dark.

“Morse Code... Any idea what that could be?” Iris asks with a whisper. John shakes his head and pockets his journal.

The two try to make their way back to Sherlock and Henry, nearly impossible in the black night with no clear path. They whisper Sherlock’s name as they walk, hoping to find them. John stops just ahead of Iris, as a loud metallic thud rings out. John looks to Iris, who also heard the noise. 

John tries to follow the thudding with his flashlight, Iris walking close behind until they stumble upon some large metal pipes along the floor of the forest. Half buried in the dirt, half exposed, they can’t make out just what they are. Before they can investigate further, there’s a loud howl off in the distance, spurring John and Iris into a run. They take off towards the howl, which is hopefully where Sherlock and Henry are, the howl continuing and seemingly increasing in volume. Adrenaline pumping, Iris manages to jump over tree roots and bushes, glad she changed into her heavier boots in the car. 

Rustling up ahead narrows John and Iris’ path until they run right into Sherlock and Henry moving back towards the direction of the car. Sherlock moves with direct intensity, not acknowledging them as he makes his way out. 

“Did you hear that?” John asks breathlessly, Iris trying to catch her breath as they pivot.

“We saw it. We saw it!” Henry shouts, following Sherlock.

“No, I didn’t see anything.” Sherlock says distractedly, trying to find the path back.

“What? What are you talking about?” Henry asks in disbelief. Sherlock maintains his line of ‘I didn’t see anything,’ as he marches back through the forest.

Sherlock barely waits for them to get back in the car before starting it and driving back to Henry’s house. John helps Henry out of the car and inside, Iris staying in the backseat watching Sherlock. Seeing him completely blank and devoid of any emotion, even for Sherlock, has Iris sincerely worried.

“You okay, Sherlock?” She asks quietly in the dimly lit car. 

“Fine,” is all Sherlock responds with, looking out the window into the cold night. 

John climbs back into the car and Sherlock drives them all back to the hotel. Once in the small parking lot, Sherlock hops out of the car without another word, leaving John and Iris behind. 

“Do you think he saw something?” Iris asks, watching Sherlock exit into the front lobby.

“I’m not sure... I want to call Henry, make sure he’s okay. Even leaving him with something to help him sleep, I still want to check.” John pulls out his phone. 

“I’m going to head inside, see if I can’t find where Sherlock disappeared to.” Iris leaves John to his phone call, checking the lobby and bar area to no avail. She pops her head into the small dining area, a smattering of people finishing a late meal, to see Sherlock’s head over the top of one of the winged back chairs in front of the fire. They are tall velvet chairs, Iris slowly making her way over to see how Sherlock is. She notices some sort of strong drink on the table next to him, and his previously cold, emotionless face, completely gone. 

Sherlock’s face mirrors that of Henry’s when they said he’d be back in the moor at night. Terror painted across his eyes as he nearly trembles out of his skin. Iris moves closer to the fire, in Sherlock’s line of sight but not sitting in the chair. She warms her hands and doesn’t say anything, hoping Sherlock will offer to speak first. He doesn’t.

John enters, having found them after making his call to Henry. He sees them by the fire and joins the two of them, dropping down into the chair next to Sherlock. 

“Well, he’s in a pretty bad way. He’s manic. Totally convinced there’s some mutant super-dog roaming the moors. And there isn’t though, is there?” John asks. Iris turns from where she stands at the fire and leans her hip on the arm of John’s chair. He looks up at her and she simply shakes her head, propping her elbow on the back of the chair, looking to Sherlock. John tries to get his attention. “If people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we’d know. It’d be for sale. I mean, that’s how it works...” Still nothing from Sherlock. 

“Try the signal we saw.” Iris offers quietly, John pulling out his notebook.

“On the moor, we saw someone signaling, Morse. Or, we think it’s Morse. It doesn’t seem to make much sense... U, M, Q, R, A, does that mean anything?” John asks, Iris starting to worry that something is seriously wrong with Sherlock. He hasn’t acknowledged them in any way, his breathing rapid and eyes closing repeatedly, trying to blink hard.

“Okay, so, what have we got so far?” Iris tries. “We know there’s footprints, because Henry found them,”

“And so did the tour guide bloke.” John adds, Iris nodding. 

“We all heard something. That howl...” Iris recalls the noise. 

“Maybe we should just look for whoever has got a big dog.” John tries jokingly. Finally, Sherlock speaks, though not what Iris thought he’d say.

“Henry’s right.” Sherlock manages to get out. “I saw it, too.”

“What?” John asks, looking to Iris in disbelief.

“I saw it too.” Sherlock trembles.

“Just... just a minute, you saw what?” Iris asks, baffled that Sherlock could have actually seen something as preposterous as this.

“A hound. Out there in the Hollow. A gigantic hound.” Sherlock huffs out in a terrified whisper. His eyes begin to well up, Sherlock blinking to keep the tears from spilling over.

“Look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this.” John starts. “Okay? Now you, of all people, can’t just... Let’s just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts.”

“Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.” Sherlock says plainly from his seat.

“What does that mean?” John asks.

“Yeah, we haven’t ruled everything out, there has to be some sort of explanation...” Iris tries. Sherlock reaches to pick up his glass, hand trembling like Iris has never seen. Sherlock laughs hollowly and holds up his glass, still shaking.

“Look at me, I’m afraid. Afraid.” He takes a sip, pulling his lips back in a sneer as the hard alcohol hits his mouth. “I’ve always been able to keep myself distant.” He takes another drink. “Divorce myself from feelings. But look, you see, body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions.” He sets down his drink with a low clink on the table. “The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.”

“Yeah, all right, Spock, take it easy.” John warns calmly, trying to pull Sherlock back.

“You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have.” Iris adds, leaning forward and lowering her voice. 

“I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up.” John says, watching Sherlock closely.

“Worked up?” Sherlock asks angrily.

“It was dark and scary!” Iris adds, hoping this isn’t going to turn into a shouting match with Sherlock and John. 

“Me?! There’s nothing wrong with me.” Sherlock’s demeanor negates any truth to that statement. He brings his hands up to his face, rubbing his temples and inhaling rapidly. 

“Sherlock...” John says gently. Sherlock continues rubbing his head, anxiety and fear bubbling up in him.

“Sherl-” Iris starts.

“There is nothing wrong with me! Do you understand?!” Sherlock explodes, the few patrons in the room turning their heads to look his way. “You want me to prove it, yes?” Iris can tell where this is going, she tries to call Sherlock back but he barrels on.

“We’re looking for a dog, yes? A great big dog, that’s your brilliant theory. _Cherchez le chien!_ ” The rapid-fire string of words out of Sherlock’s mouth takes Iris aback. “Good. Excellent. Yes, where shall we start? How about them?” Sherlock points over to a table of two, an elderly woman having dinner with a middle-aged man. “The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer’s yes.”

“Yes?” John asks, fully aware of the spiral Sherlock is on, knowing neither he nor Iris can do anything to stop it.

“She’s got a West Highland Terrier called Whisky, not exactly what we’re looking for! Look at his jumper he’s wearing, hardly worn. Clearly, he’s uncomfortable in it. Maybe because of the material, more likely the hideous pattern, suggests it’s a present, probably Christmas. So, he wants into his mother’s good books. Why? Almost certainly money. He’s treating her to a meal, but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he’s trying to economize on his own food.” Sherlock speaks as fast as his brain is firing, which is supersonic speed currently.

“Sherlock, really, you don’t have-” Iris tries to stop Sherlock.

“Maybe he’s just not hungry.” John adds, hoping that’ll be the end of it. 

“No, small plate, starter. He’s practically licked it clean. She’s nearly finished her pavlova. If she’d treated him, he’d have as much as he wanted. He’s hungry and not well-off, you can tell by his cuffs and shoes. ‘How do you know she is his mother?’” Sherlock mocks their usual questions before answering them himself. 

“Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Oh, it could be an aunt or older sister, but mother’s more likely. He was a fisherman, the scarring on the back of his hands is distinctive. Fish hooks. They’re old, suggesting he’s been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he’s turned to his widowed mother for help. ‘Widowed?’” Sherlock's manic monologue pivots so quickly, Iris nearly gives up trying to follow along. 

“Widowed? Sherlock, you really don’t need to-” John starts.

“Yes, obviously. She’s got a man’s wedding ring on a chain around her neck, clearly her late husband’s and too big for her finger. She’s well-dressed, but her jewelry is cheap. She could afford better, but she’s kept it, sentimental. Now. The dog? There are tiny hairs all over her leg, from where it gets a little bit _too_ friendly, but no hairs above the knees suggesting it’s a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact, it is! It’s a West Highland Terrier, called Whiskey. ‘How the hell did you know that Sherlock?’” Sherlock asks himself in that same mocking tone, this whole conversation completely with himself. “Because she was on the same train as us and I heard her call its name. And that’s not cheating. That’s listening. I use my senses, unlike some people, so you see, I am _fine._ In fact, I’ve never been better, so just leave me alone!” Sherlock ends his complete mental breakdown with a tone so biting, Iris wonders how John will respond.

John pauses, watching Sherlock intently before speaking. “Yeah, okay... Okay.” He says calmly, trying to keep Sherlock from going down another spiral. “Why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend.” He adds with some playful sarcasm.

“I don’t have _friends._ ” Sherlock spits back, the word ‘friends’ dripping off his tongue with utter disgust as he looks off into the fire. John just stares back at him.

“No... I wonder why.” John adds coldly before standing and heading out of the dining room. Iris watches him leave, then turns her focus back to Sherlock. She doesn’t speak for a few moments, trying to figure out where Sherlock’s head is right now. Iris reaches up and fiddles with her necklace, her other arm crossed around her midsection.

“You know you’ll have to apologize for that one.” Iris says quietly. Sherlock snorts but doesn’t look at her. “And not just to him.” Iris adds irritably, rising to follow after John. She catches him out on the patio, taking a few deep breaths with his eyes closed. 

“Hey.” She calls as she closes the glass door behind her. John turns with a look that matches Iris’ irritation right now.

“I’m going to kill him one day.” John jokes, running a hand through his hair. Iris crosses her arms in the cold, tightening her coat more around her.

“Hopefully he’ll get some sleep and figure out whatever he needs to... that was a bit scary though...” Iris ponders for a bit. “Do you honestly think he saw something? I mean he’s... Well, he’s Sherlock.” John simply shrugs, at a loss just like Iris. Iris looks out into the dark countryside, the moon overhead casting a bit of light. Suddenly, in the distance, Iris sees that same blinking light from before. Iris looks to John to realize he’s seen it too. 

Wordlessly they take off after it, Iris trying to see what could possibly be sending off a signal like that. As they make their way across the empty field, Iris sees a handful of cars with their headlights off. Alongside the blinking light is a loud creaking noise from one of the cars in the center. Once close enough, Iris realizes their mistake. The creaking of the car grows faster, and moaning from inside the dark, steamy windows calls out. It seems to be some sort of make-out spot, most definitely _not_ a clue in regards to Henry’s case. John groans, Iris trying to stifle her laugh. They turn around and quickly make their way back to the hotel. 

As they walk, John’s phone beeps. He checks it and promptly sighs.

“Sherlock?” Iris asks, the hotel getting closer.

“Yeah, he wants me to interview Henry’s therapist. I don’t know why.” John angrily types back. Another message from Sherlock and John stops in his tracks. Iris doubles back, wondering why he paused. John starts to laugh. “Oh, you’re a bad man.” Iris sees a photo of a beautiful woman on John’s phone, rolling her eyes with a laugh.

“Okay, come on, let’s get back so you can talk to the pretty lady, I swear you both act like you’re twelve sometimes.” She pokes his shoulder lightly, John pocketing his phone. Once back at the hotel, Iris decides to let John have his interview with the therapist, after the excitement of the day she just wants to crawl in bed and go to sleep. 

In her room with only a bed, dresser, and small vanity, Iris dries her hair with a towel after a hot shower. Nothing new on her phone from Melinda, but a text from Sam asking how the search for the giant hound went. Iris decides to call Sam rather than text, laying back on her bed as she recounts the day’s activities. One hand holding her phone, the other fidgets with her small cube, clicking the buttons back and forth as she talks. 

She shares her fear that Sherlock might have actually seen something very real in that Hollow, and hopes that there is some logical explanation for it all. Sam does his best to reassure her, then chats about the city, giving updates on their friends, and it’s a generally nice catch-up. Iris feels much calmer after the whirlwind of the day and manages to fall asleep without much trouble. 

The morning sun gleams through her window, waking her up with a yawn. It’s early but she isn’t sure where John and Sherlock will be and decides to get up since she’s awake. Dressed in her favorite boots and a comfortable navy sweater and jeans, Iris heads downstairs to the dining area. A light breakfast, free with the room, lays out buffet style, Iris loading up a small plate as she heads outside to the picnic tables. The peace and quiet of the early morning calm Iris, as she allows her thoughts to wander to the antique shop with Melinda. The optimism of possibly finding something that may lead her closer to an answer is almost too much. Iris checks herself again, not wanting to get her hopes up in case it ends up falling through. 

Iris sits facing the front door of the hotel, hoping to catch either John or Sherlock if they haven’t left already. John ends up being the first one out, Iris finishing her breakfast and rising to join him.

“Morning.” John calls, looking around at the empty dining area. 

“Good morning, how’d the interview go?” Iris asks, falling into step with John as he walks down one of the streets. They wind their way through the small town on foot, stumbling onto an old stone church and cemetery as they walk. 

“Started out fine, until Dr. Frankland showed up and blew my cover.” John explains, Iris wondering what Dr. Frankland’s doing out here at night.

“Nice going. Anything from Sherlock?” Iris asks cautiously, hoping nothing else happened while she was asleep. They find a spot to sit on the steps to the church, enjoying the nature and general cool morning breeze.

“Haven’t seen him, must have been up and out before I woke up.” John pulls out his notebook, avoiding eye contact or further discussion of Sherlock. Iris lets him examine his notes, her instead rising to look around at the nearby headstones. Some are decades old, some of the older, weather-worn ones even a century or two. 

Footsteps nearby turn Iris’ head, realizing it’s Sherlock coming down the way. He notices them before John does, Iris catching a look of remorse she never thought she'd see on Sherlock’s face. He makes his way into the cemetery, hands in his Belstaff coat, head almost hung low. He stops in front of John on the steps, Iris standing a few feet away. Sherlock seems unsure of what to say, so he tries for a random topic.

“Did you get anywhere with that Morse code?” He asks simply. Iris snorts quietly, turning her head back to the headstones near her. John pockets his notebook and rises from the steps shaking his head with a ‘Nah.’ He passes Sherlock, taking the path back towards the hotel.

“U, M, Q, R, A, wasn’t it? Umqra?” Sherlock adds, following John a few steps behind. Iris takes her time, letting the two boys hash out this awkwardness themselves.

“Look, forget it. I thought I was onto something, I wasn’t.” John continues on.

“How about Louise Mortimer, did you get anywhere with her?” Sherlock asks, still following, still not sure how to fix this.

“No.” John says shortly.

“Too bad. But did you get any information?” Sherlock asks. Iris wonders if Sherlock is just going to pretend like last night didn’t actually happen...

“You’re being funny now?” John stops and turns back to Sherlock before turning and continuing on. Sherlock looks back towards Iris who simply motions back to John.

“Thought it might break the ice, a bit.” Sherlock offers. John doesn’t look back.

“Funny doesn’t suit you. Let’s stick to ice.” John returns. Sherlock calls after John, who simply brushes him off with, “It’s fine.”

“Wait, what happened last night, something happened to me... Something I’ve not really experienced before-” Sherlock tries to explain.

“Yes, you said. Fear, Sherlock Holmes got scared, you said.” John refuses to turn back to Sherlock, causing Sherlock to reach out a hand and pull John’s elbow to get him to look at him.

“No, no. It was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.” Sherlock looks between John and Iris, standing before them trying his best to explain.

“You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster?” John asks, looking to Iris and then back at Sherlock.

“No, I can’t believe that. But I did see it, so the question is, how? _How?_ ” Sherlock emphasizes the how, John still not convinced. 

“Yeah, right, good.” John looks off towards the hotel. “So you’ve got something to go on, then. Good luck with that.” He adds flatly before walking away. Sherlock doesn’t move after him but calls out so he can hear.

“Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it.” John stops and turns on his heel, disbelief in his face. “I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.” That seems about the closest thing to an apology that John will get here, and Iris sees him recognize that, and accept it.

“Right.” John responds, looking off at the nearby trees. Iris rolls her eyes, glad to see they’ve cleared the air, but still annoyed at Sherlock. She clears her throat, catching Sherlock’s attention.

“Glad you two have made up.” Iris says a bit acerbically. Sherlock fidgets with his hands in his coat. “And I get it, I think I’d react the same after hearing the lore of Henry’s story and then being suddenly confronted with something that seems like legitimate proof...” She pauses before joking. “Though I probably wouldn’t have hyper-deduced the mother-son duo at the table behind us, but who knows.” Sherlock smiles, Iris losing her annoyance at him.

“That was a bit manic, yes.” Sherlock chuckles a bit before taking his hands out of his coat. “I want you to know, Iris... I do consider you a friend as well. Both of you.” Sherlock looks off at John who’s still waiting for them at the end of the path. 

“Good, I mean I considered myself your friend after the second time I was kidnapped on your behalf.” Iris jokes. “Or was it the third?” She teases, putting a finger to her chin in mock thought. John starts to head back to the hotel, impatient to wait for the two of them. 

Suddenly, a light bulb goes off in Sherlock’s head, turning to John and calling after him.

“John! You are amazing! You are fantastic!” Sherlock nearly sprints running after John, Iris quickening her pace to keep up. John continues forward.

“Yes, all right, you don’t have to overdo it.” John exits the path back into the parking lot of the hotel, Sherlock catching up and falling in step next to him. Iris pulls up the rear, joining John on the other side as they walk.

“You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable.” Sherlock’s praises confuse both John and Iris, John falling out of step with him as Sherlock continues on. “Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.” 

“Hang on. You were saying sorry a minute ago.” John interjects.

“Don’t spoil it, Sherlock.” Iris adds, wondering where Sherlock’s off to now.

“So what have I done that’s so bloody stimulating?” John asks as Sherlock pulls out his own notebook and furiously starts scribbling in it. They pause just outside the front door, Sherlock turning to hold the notebook out to them. The word _‘HOUND’_ is written across the page.

“What if it’s not a word, what if it’s individual letters?” Sherlock asks, taking the notebook back and writing more. He turns it back out to them, now reading _'H.O.U.N.D._

“An acronym?” Iris asks, wondering what it could stand for, other than the gigantic hound Henry saw. Sherlock pockets his notebook.

“Absolutely no idea, but-” Sherlock starts to say, before someone inside the hotel’s lobby catches his eye. “What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock demands, Iris looking over to see Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade standing there with a smile.

“Oh, nice to see you too.” Greg retorts.

“Greg! So nice to see you, what are you doing out here?” Iris asks, hugging Greg warmly.

“I’m on holiday, would you believe?” Greg removes his sunglasses and smiles at them.

“No, I wouldn’t.” Sherlock says coldly.

“Hello, John.” Greg says, ignoring Sherlock.

“Greg.” John says with a grin.

“I heard you were in the area. What are you up to?” Greg asks, leaning on the bar counter behind him. “Are you after this Hound of Hell, like on the telly?”

“I’m waiting for an explanation Inspector, why are you here?” Sherlock says disdainfully.

“I told you, I’m on holiday.” Greg tries to explain, Sherlock cutting right back in.

“You’re brown as a nut. You’re clearly just back from your holidays.”

“I fancied another one.” Greg replies. Iris appreciates the fact that there are more than just her and John that can handle Sherlock’s quirks, and not fold under the pressure of his questioning.

“Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it?” Sherlock realizes. “Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my _handler_ to spy on me, incognito.” Sherlock huffs out ‘handler’ like it’s the worst thing ever. Greg reaches out for the pint that was just poured for him, taking a sip. “Is that why you’re calling yourself ‘Greg?’” Sherlock asks, bewildered at the name. Lestrade looks to both John and Iris, unsure of what just happened.

“That’s his name.” John explains, wondering how long he hasn’t known this.

“Is it?” Sherlock makes it sound like this is brand new information to him, not the truth.

“Yes. If you’d ever bothered to find out.” Greg says annoyed. “Look, I’m not your handler. And I just don’t do what your brother tells me.” He takes another drink. 

“Actually, you could be just the man we want.” John says, pulling out a small slip of paper from his notebook. Sherlock asks why, and John explains. “Well, I’ve not been idle, Sherlock. I think I might have found something. “I didn’t know if it was relevant, but it’s starting to look like it might be.” He shows the slip to Sherlock, Iris looking over his shoulder at the paper. “That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.” 

It is an order from a butcher for dozens of huge slabs of meat, something you might see at a regular restaurant, but the menu here is strictly vegetarian... Iris learned that the hard way with her ‘soy bacon’ at breakfast that morning. If the meat wasn’t going to the customers, then who, or what, was eating it all?

“A nice, scary inspector from Scotland Yard, who can put in a few calls, might come in very handy.” John says, pleased with himself. He rings the bell on the counter to call back the owner, setting their next move into motion.

Detective Inspector Lestrade’s rank and badge panic the owner and his partner, and soon they find themselves in the back offices of the hotel. Greg flips through their books with a scowl, while both men sit across from him completely petrified. John and Iris stand in the back watching by the small kitchenette area. Sherlock flits about making some coffee, seemingly uninterested in Lestrade’s questioning. 

A few moments later Sherlock carries over two cups of coffee, offering one to Iris and then to John. Iris takes hers happily, shocked he remembered to add in sugar as she does, but glad for the caffeine. John seems skeptical of the cup.

“What’s this?” He asks, peering down at the cup in Sherlock’s hand.

“Coffee. I made coffee.” Sherlock says simply.

“You never make coffee.” John retorts. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.” John furthers, Sherlock looking sadly away, seemingly hurt that John won’t take the coffee.

“Oh just accept it and let him apologize, he very rarely does it.” Iris teases behind her mug. John takes the cup and brings it to his lips. He pulls the cup away with a small grimace. 

“Hm, I don’t take sugar.” John says, Sherlock deflating next to him. Iris watches the exchange, wondering what on earth is happening, but glad to see John drink the coffee anyway, Sherlock perking up at the sight. Apologetic Sherlock is an enigma to Iris...

Lestrade finishes his inspection of the books, turning his attention to the scared men before him. “These records go back nearly two months. Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out?” Lestrade looks between the two men, until the owner, Gary, breaks.

“Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know?” Gary starts, leaning closer to Lestrade at the table. “Let a great big dog run wild up on the moor, it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness monster.”

“And where do you keep it?” Lestrade asks, Iris relieved that what Sherlock and Henry must have seen was this dog running loose on the moor. 

“There’s an old mine shaft. It’s not too far. He was alright there.” Gary furthers.

“Was?” Sherlock questions the two from the back of the room. Gary sighs.

“We couldn’t control the bloody thing. It was vicious... And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, you know...” Gary trails off. John steps forward.

“Wait, he’s dead?” John asks, Iris’ theory shattering in a confused jumble.

“Put down.” Gary admits sheepishly. “That’s it. It’s over. It was just a joke, you know.” Gary tries to play it off, Billy next to him offering a sad smile. Greg agrees dryly.

“Yeah, hilarious. You’ve nearly driven a man out of his mind.” Greg stands up irately, leaving out to the front lobby. John and Iris follow while Sherlock stays behind, still slightly ignoring the Inspector. John catches Greg in the lobby as they walk out the front door.

“You know he’s actually pleased you’re here? Secretly pleased.” John explains, just out of earshot of Sherlock. 

“He’s just mad because he thinks Mycroft sent you, so really his anger is pointed at him and not you.” Iris offers, Greg laughing.

“Well don’t tell Sherlock, but Mycroft did send me. Baskerville is all very hush-hush, and he thought his little brother could do with someone checking in.” Greg smiles. “But I’m _not_ his handler.” He emphasizes. “I do suppose he likes having all the same faces back together, appeals to his... his...” Greg trails off.

“Asperger’s?” John offers, earning a smack on his arm from Iris. The conversation swiftly ends with the arrival of Sherlock, who looks between them all quizzically. Greg changes the subject.

“So, you believe them about having the dog destroyed?”

“No reason not to.” Sherlock responds calmly. 

“Well, hopefully there’s no harm done.” Iris adds, sad to think that poor dog put down. 

“I’m not quite sure what I’d charge them with, anyway. I’ll have a word with the local force.” Greg makes his goodbyes and begins to walk away. “I’m enjoying this. It’s nice to get London out of your lungs.” He calls back joyously, leaving the trio in the patio area out front. 

“So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?” John asks, Sherlock looking off. “But that wasn’t what you saw, that wasn’t just an ordinary dog.”

“No. It was immense. It had burning red eyes, and it was glowing. Its whole body was glowing.” Sherlock seems lost in the memory, Iris cringing to think about it herself. Sherlock seems to snap out of it, walking towards the car. “I’ve got a theory, but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it.”

“How though? Can’t exactly use your brother’s ID again.” Iris questions, watching Sherlock pull out his phone and start to make a call.

“Hello, brother, dear. How are you?” Sherlock’s voice drips in fake sweetness, John looking to Iris with a smirk. They climb into the car and wait for Sherlock to finish his call.

“You think Mycroft will really get us back in?” Iris asks from the back, the two of them watching Sherlock, unable to hear him.

“I never know with those two...” John trails off.

“It seems the more I learn about the Holmes brothers, the more I want to see them at those Christmas dinners.” Iris jokes, John laughing in agreeance. Sherlock wraps up the call and climbs in, starting the engine. They make their way to Baskerville, the chat with Mycroft seemingly reopening the front doors to them again. They wait for the gate to open, Sherlock explaining his plan.

“I need to see Major Barrymore as soon as we get inside.”

“Right.” John answers as they watch the K9 units sniff the exterior of the car.

“Which means you two will have to start the search for the hound.”

“Okay, you think we should start with Dr. Stapleton?” Iris asks from the backseat, Sherlock nodding. He looks to John before the guard comes back with his ID.

“Could be dangerous.” Sherlock warns, but with more of a hint of excitement than fear in his voice. Iris hopes that if they find the giant beast that it’s locked away somewhere safe, and not just running loose. She is glad she won’t be alone in searching, trusting John to help them make it out in one piece. Iris nervously plays with the end of her long braid over her shoulder.

Once out of the car and into the main building of Baskerville, Sherlock separates from Iris and John, sending them down the hallway to start looking in the labs. They ride the elevator down and back into the initial lab they visited. John and Iris notice the usual number of scientists has vastly decreased, and the handful that remains is leaving, shutting off some of the overhead lights as they go. Iris and John share a look, wondering where they’ve gone off to. They begin walking around the counters and peering into closets, Iris glad to see that the covered cages in the middle of the room seem vacant of any animals. 

John pulls out the ID he was given on their way in, Iris following him into a smaller, closed-off room just off the main area. The room is dimly lit and there is a loud hissing of different pitches throughout. There are glass boxes with dials and buttons on the side, a desk scattered with papers, and panels with multiple different tubes running out in different directions. 

The room has a slight haze to it, Iris squinting closer at pipes that have white smoke escaping different sections. They make their way through and to a different door on the other side. John exits first, holding the door for Iris. Just as he lets it go, a giant lamp with about ten massive bulbs flashes on along with the overhead fluorescents, promptly blinding them both. 

“Oh, God, what-” John reacts loudly, Iris reaching her hand up to try and block the searing light from her face. Suddenly there is a loud alarm frantically blaring all around them, Iris reaching up to try and protect her ears. John tries to blink away the light, looking for the elevator. He reaches out for Iris behind him, her making contact with his arm first. She grabs ahold of the jacket material at his elbow, and they make their way across the room.

The alarm continues, Iris trying to blink and see anything other than the imprint of those blinding bulbs. John reaches the elevator, pulling out his ID to swipe. He gets it through the reader only to have it blink red with “ACCESS DENIED” on the screen. John tries again, only to receive the same message. He tries a third time with no change. 

All of a sudden the blaring alarm and bright lights cut out, plunging them into silent darkness. Iris still holds onto John’s elbow, unable to make anything out in front of her.

“What the hell is happening John?” She asks, trying to get her vision back with no luck.

“I have no idea.” John pulls out his flashlight, helping somewhat in the darkness, but the flashing imprint of the giant lamp makes it extremely difficult. “Hello?” John calls out, scanning the dark lab with his small flashlight, Iris still holding onto his elbow. John pauses to rub his eyes, Iris following suit, some of the imprint starting to fade.

With a bit of light spilling in from different corners of the lab, Iris’ eyes manage to adjust somewhat to the darkness. By the look of him, John’s eyes managed to adjust as well. A strange metal clanging noise comes from the covered cages next to them, the pair eyeing them warily. John makes his way over, pulling back one of the sheets to reveal an empty cage. He moves to the next one, moving the sheet away to reveal the door swinging open.

They shift to the third cage, and the sheet falls away to reveal one of the monkeys Iris saw when they first came, lunging for the door with a shriek. Iris and John jump back, glad to see it’s just a monkey and not the hound, but still startled nonetheless. Iris turns to the final cage next to her, eyes going wide as John follows her gaze, shining his flashlight onto the corner of the enclosure. Where the two sides of the cage should be welded together, it looks like something pried its way out and bent the metal bars like it was easily malleable. 

A low growl in the distance spurs John and Iris to turn on their heels looking around frantically. John sees the smaller room they first walked through, motioning silently for Iris to follow. John tries his ID, which had worked on this room only moments ago, to find it also blaringly denies each swipe. John tries to call Sherlock on his cell phone.

“Damn it. Pick up, pick up!” John angrily clicks his phone shut and pockets it. Animal-like footsteps scurry off in the distance, John and Iris crouching low to the ground. They move to the elevator again, John about to swipe when a distinct growl ripples across the silence. John and Iris crouch in the corner, John placing his hand over his mouth to stifle his breathing. Iris mirrors him, trying to keep from panicking, though she’s failing miserably.

The growl roars out again, and before Iris can react, John does. He grabs her by the wrist and bolts towards the cages in the center of the room. They go for the empty one with the door ajar, John swiftly pulling Iris in, shutting the door behind them, and moving the sheet back over to cover them. Iris hides in the corner, John crouching down next to her, clicking his flashlight off and putting it in his pocket. Iris, scared, grabs John’s shoulder with one hand, and his elbow with the other, John moving to put himself more in front of her. This close she can hear his heart beating almost as rapidly as hers. They both cover their mouths again, trying to make as little noise as possible. 

Loudly, John’s phone rings. Perfect, Sherlock chooses now to return John’s call. John pulls it out quickly and answers it.

“It’s here. It’s in here, with me and Iris.” John whispers.

“Where are you?” Iris can hear Sherlock through the phone.

“Get us out, Sherlock. You’ve got to get us out.” John pleads, Iris’ breathing increasing behind her hand. “The big lab, the first lab we saw-” the monster in the lab with them growls, John quickly putting his hand over his mouth and nose.

“John... John?” Sherlock calls out. 

“Now, Sherlock! Please!” John frantically whispers, both he and Iris trying to flatten themselves as far back as they can in the corner of the covered cage. 

“All right, I’ll find you both. Keep talking.” Sherlock urges, Iris wondering where he is in the building and hoping he’s as close as can be. 

“I can’t, it’ll hear me.” John whispers.

“Keep talking. What are you seeing?” Sherlock asks again, John trying to peer through a small opening in the sheet over the cage. “John?”

“Yes, I’m here.” John whispers, Sherlock asking again what he can see. John crawls forward a bit, Iris letting go of him warily. “I don’t know. I don’t know, but we can hear it now.” The growl roars out again, John tensing and Iris moving instinctually back to John, preferring to be holding onto his arm than alone in the corner. “Did you hear that?” John asks frantically. 

“Stay calm, stay calm. Can you see it?” Sherlock asks. Iris, now at John’s shoulder, can see through the same opening in the sheet as John. They both look out, unable to see anything in the darkness. Suddenly, a dark creature looms into their field of vision, knocking both Iris and John back to the corner of the cage in absolute terror.

Large and black as night, red eyes piercing through them, and massive teeth revealed from the snarl of a gigantic, glowing hound. Just like Henry’s drawings as a child, just like Fletcher’s sandwich board, and just like Sherlock described it that morning. Iris wants to blink to see if her eyes are playing tricks with her, but the horror keeps her from taking her eyes off this terrible beast. 

“I can see it.” John and Iris say simultaneously, frozen in fear. “It’s here.” Iris says in a panic. Before the beast can get any closer to them, the sheet covering the cage whips off, the fluorescent lights overhead kick on, and Sherlock opens the cage door, all in one quick motion.

“Are you all right? John, Iris?” Sherlock asks, leaning in and reaching for John’s arm, helping him to his feet and out of the cage. 

“Jesus Christ! It was the hound!” John says shakily. “Sherlock, it was here, I swear it,” John begins stuttering over his words, trying to catch his breath. Sherlock reaches back into the cage, offering a hand to Iris, still trembling in the corner. She is fairly unsteady on her feet once out, reaching out with one hand to brace herself on the side of the cage. Her breathing begins to pick up, Iris feeling like she can’t breathe while breathing so rapidly the extra oxygen starts to blur her vision.

“It’s all right, it’s okay now.” Sherlock tries to calm John who now paces around the cages, looking for the hound he and Iris just saw.

“No, it’s not! It’s not okay!” John explodes, extremely agitated. “I saw it, I was wrong!”

“Hm, well, let’s not jump to conclusions.” Sherlock says simply. Iris continues to hyperventilate, doing everything she can to slow her breathing. John is about to ask what Sherlock means when he notices Iris’ struggle to stay upright.

“Oh, god, Iris- Sherlock, look at her.” John rushes over, still shaking himself, putting both hands on Iris’ shoulders to get her to look at him. Anxiety reads all over her face, Iris about to spiral into a full-blown panic attack. John gets her to make eye contact. “Just breathe, Iris, just focus on taking slow breaths. In through the nose, slowly.” 

Iris reaches up with her hands to cover her mouth, forcing her to breathe through her nose, her breath now wheezing quietly as her eyes remain wide. It takes a couple of minutes of John coaching her through her breathing before Iris’ heart rate slows and she can lower her hands. John releases her arms so she can bend over and put her hands on her knees, exhaling slowly, still shaking. Now fully in control of her breathing, Iris stands up straight, looking to John and Sherlock in front of her.

“What... The hell... Was that?” Iris asks calmly, breathing slowly between each beat. 

“What did you see?” Sherlock asks.

“The hound.” Iris squeaks out.

“Huge, red eyes?” Sherlock prompts.

“Yes.” Both John and Iris answer.

“Glowing?” Sherlock furthers, seemingly unconcerned by the panic in both John and Iris.

“Yes.” Again, they respond the same.

“No.” Sherlock says with a grin.

“What?” John demands angrily.

“I made up the bit about glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You both have been drugged. We have all been drugged.” Sherlock tries to calm John down, but each sentence confuses him more and more.

“Drugged?” John asks, utterly as baffled as Iris.

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asks, looking between the two of them.

“Of course I can walk- Iris, are you okay?” John asks, still pulsing with alarm. Iris manages a nod, wrapping her arms around herself soothingly.

“It’s time to lay this ghost.” Sherlock says definitively, turning and heading down a hallway. John and Iris silently follow, watching Sherlock open a door (Iris noting that _his_ keycard works fine) to reveal Dr. Stapleton standing with a rabbit on the table in front of her. 

“Oh, back again? What’s on your mind this time?” Dr. Stapleton asks annoyedly at Sherlock. Iris stays in the doorway, still reeling from what just happened.

“Murder, Dr. Stapleton. Refined, cold-blooded murder.” Sherlock explains, turning back to the light switch next to Iris. He flicks off the lights, turning back to reveal the rabbit on the exam table now glows a bright fluorescent green. Sherlock flicks the lights back on.

“Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to Bluebell, or shall I?” Sherlock asks simply. Dr. Stapleton looks beaten and out of options.

“Okay. What do you want?” She asks.

“Can I borrow your microscope?”

They follow Dr. Stapleton down another hallway to a different lab, littered with microscopes and other testing equipment, Sherlock moving quickly over to the nearest station. He pulls things out of his coat Iris doesn’t notice, as she’s leaning absentmindedly against the counter, staring off blankly. Sherlock begins to run experiments, Iris trying to stay upright. Dr. Stapleton stands next to her, John sitting on a stool at the counter in front of Iris.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look very peaky.” Dr. Stapleton asks concernedly. John pulls himself from his stare at the floor to say he’s fine. Iris manages a shrug but keeps her gaze unfocused on anything in particular.

“It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you’re interested.” Dr. Stapleton says proudly. John asks what she means.

“In the rabbits, what made them glow.” Iris says detachedly behind him, answering before Dr. Stapleton can, unsure of how she pieced that together so fast in her current state. 

“Aequorea Victoria, if you really want to know.” Dr. Stapleton adds with a smile.

“Why?” John asks.

“Why not? We don’t ask questions like that here. It isn’t done. It was a mix-up, anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming.” John says ironically.

“Yes, I know. I hate myself sometimes.” Dr. Stapleton says while looking down.

“So, come on, then. You can trust me, I’m a doctor; what else have you got hidden away up here?” John asks, causing Dr. Stapleton to sigh.

“Listen, if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are.” Dr. Stapleton and John go into a small discussion on cloning and animals that Iris can’t quite focus on at the moment. Sherlock shouting and throwing his glass side at the wall snaps her attention back.

“It’s not there!” Sherlock shouts, Iris standing up as she hears the glass shatter in the corner. “Nothing there! It doesn’t make any sense!” Sherlock begins to pace heatedly.

“What were you expecting to find?” Dr. Stapleton asks.

“A drug, of course. It has to be a drug. A hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There’s no trace of anything in the sugar.” Sherlock huffs.

“Sugar?” Iris asks, wondering why he was looking at the sugar of all things.

“Sugar, yes. A simple process of elimination. I saw the hound, saw it as my imagination expected me to see it. A genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn’t believe my eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. 

“Henry Knight, he saw it too, but John and Iris didn’t. Neither of you saw it. We have eaten and drunk the same things since we got to Grimpen, apart from one thing. You don’t take sugar in your coffee.” Sherlock turns, pointing a finger at John. “I took it from Henry’s kitchen, his sugar.” Sherlock leans against the counter at his multiple slides and scribbling on the glass countertop. “It’s perfectly all right.” Sherlock pushes off and resumes pacing.

“Sherlock, I had sugar in my coffee when we first met with Henry. I took the cubes while I was sitting right next to you.” Iris says gently, still withdrawn. Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear her, continuing to pace by his seat.

“But maybe it’s not a drug.” John offers, Sherlock shaking his head.

“No, it has to be a drug. How did it get into our systems? How? There has to be something. Something...” Iris watches as Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to figure out the answer. “Something buried deep.” Sherlock turns to the three of them. “Get out.” He orders. 

“What?” Dr. Stapleton asks, offended at the request.

“Get out, I need to go to my mind palace.” Sherlock orders again, John sighing and Iris letting out a huff of a laugh. Dr. Stapleton looks between them, confused. John rises from his seat, Iris following him down towards the door. 

“He’s not going to be doing much talking for a while, we may as well go.” John explains.

“His what?” Dr. Stapleton asks again, confused at the term.

“His ‘mind palace,’ it’s a memory technique, a sort of mental map. You plot a location, it doesn’t have to be a real place. You deposit memories there. Theoretically, you never forget anything. All you do is find your way back to it.” John explains as they make their way out of the lab and into the nearby hallway.

“Or you could just do what I do and just never forget anything, ever... Though you do lack the control over when memories resurface sometimes... maybe his way is better.” Iris jokes sardonically causing John to laugh in understanding, while Dr. Stapleton only looks more confused. “Sorry, just ignore me.” Iris brushes it off.

“So this imaginary location could be anything, a house or a street? But he said ‘Palace,’ he said it was a palace?” Dr. Stapleton asks.

“Yeah, well, he would, wouldn’t he?” John answers, following Iris over to a small bench, prepared to wait out Sherlock and his ‘remembering.’ Iris’ memory brings forward all the previous times she’s found Sherlock in his ‘mind palace.’

“One time I came up to your flat to see how things were going on that case with the missing ears, only to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of your living room floor completely still. I thought he was meditating at first... only to remember it was Sherlock and I doubt he does anything like that,” earning a hearty laugh from John. “So after about ten minutes of trying to get his attention, Sherlock suddenly comes to shouting ‘The Gardener!’ and promptly falls over. It seems he forgot he was sitting on the ground.” Iris recounts the tale, her and John laughing. 

“Sometimes he’ll go into his mind palace without telling me, mid-conversation even.” John adds, Iris chuckling at the thought. “I once balanced eight books on his head waiting for him to come out of it. He wasn’t too pleased when they fell on him as they were pretty heavy volumes.” John admits. 

Sherlock emerges from the lab eventually, explaining he needs to see Major Barrymore’s office. Dr. Stapleton leads the way, swiping through doors as they go. Once into a smaller area, mostly computers and large monitors but still lab equipment around, Sherlock moves about the room pacing. Dr. Stapleton sits at one of the main computers to log in.

“Doors.” Sherlock calls as he leaves, Iris and John moving to the two main exit points of the small office area. John peers out one of the windows, Iris cracking the door open a bit, no sign of Major Barrymore, only a handful of uniformed men going about their work. 

“‘Project H.O.U.N.D.’ I must have read about it, stored it away.” Sherlock begins to explain. “An experiment in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana.”

“‘Liberty, In,’ the two words Henry saw.” Iris pieces together, checking out the window again. Sherlock leans over Dr. Stapleton’s shoulder, instructing her to search H-O-U-N-D on the screen. The computer makes a squawking noise in denial, Dr. Stapleton shaking her head.

“That’s as far as my access goes, I’m afraid.” 

“There must be an override, a password?” John asks from his post.

“I imagine so, but that’d be Major Barrymore’s.” Dr. Stapleton offers, nodding over to a small alcove office with the door tag ‘MAJOR BARRYMORE.’ Sherlock moves in, flicking on the light and muttering ‘password’ to himself. John and Iris slightly abandon their posts to follow Sherlock, standing in the doorway with Dr. Stapleton. Sherlock moves to sit in the Major’s chair.

“He sat here when he thought it up.” Sherlock swivels around in the chair. “Describe him to me.” He queries Dr. Stapleton.

“You’ve seen him.” She says sarcastically. Sherlock presses for more description. “He’s a bloody martinet, a throw-back, the sort they’d have sent into Suez.” She offers.

“Good, excellent, old-fashioned. Traditionalist. Not the sort to use his children’s name as a password. He loves his job, proud of it and this is work-related. So what’s at eye level?” Sherlock begins to scan Major Barrymore’s desk and all his photos and general office paraphernalia. Surrounding the desk are boards with papers and awards pinned to them and bookcases full of books. Iris moves closer to the bookshelves out of curiosity while Sherlock continues thinking aloud. “Books. Jane’s Defense Weekly, bound copies. Hannibal. Wellington. Rommel-”

“Sherlock, look he has all four volumes of Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking Peoples, along with five different Margaret Thatcher biographies.” Iris observes, pointing to the hefty books on the shelves. Sherlock rises from his seat to inspect further. 

“Mid-1980s, at a guess...” Sherlock leans in to look at a photo on the desk. “Father and son. Barrymore Senior, medals, Distinguished Service Order?” Sherlock asks of John, pointing to the medals dangling from the uniform in the photo. John leans in slightly to see better.

“That date, I’d say Falklands veteran.” John describes, recalling the specifics.

“Right, Thatcher’s a more likely bet than Churchill.” Sherlock turns away.

“So, what, he made his password ‘Thatcher?’” Iris asks, following Sherlock out of the small office and back to the computer Dr. Stapleton tried to access.

“No, with a man like Major Barrymore, only first name terms would do.” Sherlock reaches down to the keyboard, Iris over his shoulder as he types ‘Margaret’ only to see the full name doesn’t fit. He tries ‘Maggie’ and suddenly the computer springs to life. The password opens the search of H.O.U.N.D., producing article after article and a barrage of photos. They crowd around the computer screen trying to take it all in.

Sherlock scrolls through the endless amounts of information, settling on an old black and white photo of a group of scientists posing for the camera. Sherlock clicks a button that shows the names of the lead scientists at the forefront of the group. Elaine Dyson, Mary Uslowski, Jack O’Mara, Rick Nader, and Leonard Hansen. 

“H.O.U.N.D. They make up the acronym.” Iris realizes, rearranging the letters of their last names. There’s also a logo for the project on many of their t-shirts: a terrifying wolf snarling above the H.O.U.N.D. name and ‘Liberty, In’ for the location. 

Iris watches as Sherlock scrolls through the articles relating to the H.O.U.N.D. experiments, the group falling into a silent horror as they realize just what the project was. Side effects ranging from ‘paranoia’ to ‘severe frontal lobe damage’ accompanied by terrifying photos of trial patients frozen in a scream, tears running down their faces.

“Jesus.” John says aloud as Sherlock pulls up an article detailing the multiple homicides committed by one rogue patient in particular, bloody crime scene photos attached.

“'Project H.O.U.N.D. A new deliriant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible.’” Sherlock reads from another case briefing. “They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon, to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus. But they shut it down and hid it away in 1986.”

“Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on.” Dr. Stapleton says, her eyes still glued to the computer screen.

“And what they did to others.” Iris adds somberly. 

“Prolonged exposure drove them insane. Made them almost uncontrollably aggressive.” Iris looks away as Sherlock opens another batch of case files.

“So, someone’s been doing it again? Carrying on the experiments?” John asks, Sherlock clicking back to the initial photo of the group of scientists.

“Attempting to refine it, perhaps. For the last 20 years.”

“But who? I mean do you recognize any of those names?” Iris asks Dr. Stapleton, who shakes her head unable to identify any of the five names. Sherlock’s gaze intensifies on the photo, scanning through each face.

“Five principal scientists. Twenty years ago... Maybe our friend’s somewhere in the back of the picture?” Sherlock asks, Iris leaning closer, eyes flitting over the old black and white photo.

“You mean someone who’s old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986? Someone who was in Indiana working at the lab?” Iris asks, eyes still on the picture. Sherlock leans back and looks at John.

“Maybe someone who says ‘cell phone’ because of time spent in America? You remember John?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh my god, Dr. Frankland?” Iris realizes, pointing to a man in the back of the picture who looks like the spitting image of Dr. Frankland, only with a beard and vastly younger. 

“He gave us his number, in case we needed him.” Sherlock reaches for his phone.

“But Bob doesn’t work on... he’s a virologist.” Dr. Stapleton tries to piece it together. “This is chemical warfare.”

“That’s where he started, though. And he’s never lost the certainty, the obsession that that drug really could work. Nice of him to give us his number. Let’s arrange a little meeting.” Sherlock moves away from the computer to use his phone, John stepping closer to the screen. John’s phone rings, not recognizing the number he shrugs and answers it.

“Hello?” Iris can hear a woman sobbing through the phone, John putting it on speaker. “Who’s this?” He tries again.

“You’ve got to find Henry.” The woman cries out. John straightens up, turning to Sherlock whispering that it’s Louise Mortimer, Henry’s therapist, on the line.

“Louise, what’s wrong?” John asks.

“Henry was, was remembering. Then- he tried. He’s got a gun, he went for the gun and tried to-” Louise manages to choke out, her breathing out of control. “He’s gone. But you’ve got to stop him, I don’t know what he might do.”

John manages to calm Louise down, taking the phone off of speaker to locate her and call someone to go out and help her. Sherlock seems unable to reach Dr. Frankland, so he dials Greg Lestrade on the phone, instructing him to meet them at Dewer’s Hollow and bring a gun. Iris doesn’t like the idea of guns being brought in with someone as emotionally unstable as Henry, but she hopes they’ll be able to quell the situation before anyone gets really hurt. Dr. Stapleton leads them all out of the lab and watches as they climb back into the car.

“Sherlock, are you sure he’ll be at the Hollow? If he’s truly lost it, would Henry really go back there?” Iris asks as she buckles her seatbelt.

“It’s the only place he’ll go. Back to where it all started.” Sherlock explains, starting the car and taking off for Dewer’s Hollow. Dark night blankets their drive, the car’s headlights the only illumination on the road. 

Once there, Sherlock throws the car into park and they clamber out, John handing Iris an extra flashlight as they make their way into the dense forest. They rush between trees and over fallen logs, making the same trail as before, Iris realizing how off-track she and John were the first night they arrived. Suddenly the dense trees open up into the vast hollow, a steep decline down into more foggy wetland, shadows jumping off nearby trees in the moonlight. 

Immense cold washes over Iris along with the fog rolling in, plunging her back to those same feelings and memories from the cage in the lab. Before she can be fully knocked back by them, a figure at the bottom of the hollow catches her eye. It’s Henry, on his knees, with a gun in his mouth.

“Henry, no! No, stop it!” Iris calls out, Sherlock and John as well, as they try to climb their way down the steep incline. Henry jumps up and starts to move away from them.

“Get back! Get away from me!” Henry shrieks, Iris shocked by the severely unstable man before her. From first meeting Henry back at Baker Street she knew he was terrified, but that first impression of him barely holds a candle to the broken man that stands in front of them now.

“Easy, Henry, easy. Just relax.” John tries calmly, Henry turning the gun on them.

“I know what I am, I know what I tried to do!” Henry cries out.

“Just put the gun down, it’s okay Henry.” Iris calls as calmly as she can muster, taking a small step forward. Henry trains the gun on her.

“No, no! I know what I am!” Henry begins to sob.

“Yes, I’m sure you do, Henry. It’s all been explained to you, hasn’t it? Explained very carefully.” Sherlock begins urgently. Henry quiets in confusion. “Someone needed to keep you quiet, needed to keep you as a child, to reassert the dream you both clung onto, because you had started to remember.” Sherlock starts taking slow, deliberate steps towards Henry. Iris and John fan out, Iris hoping they can get behind Henry without him noticing.

“Remember now, Henry, you’ve got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy.” Sherlock continues, the gun in Henry’s hand slowly wavering as he thinks.

“I thought, it had got my dad. The hound. I thought... Oh, Jesus!” Henry frantically balks at the memory, shouting, “I don’t, I don’t know anymore! I don’t!” Iris freezes where she is, just out of his peripheral vision, but still too far to reach him. Henry moves to put the gun back in his mouth, causing all three of them to shout at once.

“No, Henry! Henry, please!”

“Henry, remember. ‘Liberty, In.’ Two words.” Sherlock captures Henry’s attention again. “Two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago. You’d started to piece things together, to remember what really happened here that night. It wasn’t an animal, was it, Henry?” Sherlock deduces, Henry looking lost and frightened. “Not a monster. A man.” 

Henry’s face mirrors that of Iris’ when she’s lost in her memories, eyes flitting back and forth, breath quickening as he relives the death of his father. It wasn’t a beast that killed him, but a man, one of the scientists working on the H.O.U.N.D. project. Henry freezes in realization.

“You couldn’t cope. You were just a child. So you rationalized it into something very different.” Sherlock furthers, Iris glad to see Henry’s frantic energy slowly calming down. “Then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped. Driven out of your mind so that no one would believe a word that you said.” 

Iris slowly starts to move closer to Henry, John starting in as well. Off in the distance, she hears Lestrade call out for Sherlock, glad to hear he found them. Iris reaches out to place a tentative hand on Henry’s shoulder. John reaches out and takes the gun, Iris glad to see the firearm in better, calmer hands than Henry’s. Henry deflates, Iris putting one of her arms behind his shoulders in a bit of a side embrace to try and soothe him.

“But we saw it, the hound, last night.” Henry says to Sherlock. “We did, we saw-”

“No, but there was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but nothing more than an ordinary dog.” Sherlock explains. “We both saw it, saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus, that’s how it works.”

“But there never was any monster.” Iris says comfortingly, Henry nodding slowly at the thought.

Right on the word ‘monster,’ a melancholy howl calls out nearby, freezing everyone in place. This can’t be, they just figured it out and there was no monster. So then what was this? John and Iris point their flashlights towards the top of the hollow, landing on a very clear, very real, black hound-looking creature.

“Sherlock.” John calls, Lestrade’s flashlight following up as well. All of their eyes transfixed on this creature that should not exist somehow existing right before their eyes. Henry begins to wail, crying ‘No!’ over and over, Iris blinking her eyes hard trying to figure out what was happening.

“Are you seeing this?” John asks quickly of Lestrade, who nods ardently. “Right, he is not drugged, Sherlock, so what is that?” The creature circles the top of the hollow, bright red eyes bearing down on them, deciding which path to take to reach them at the base. “What is it?!” He demands again when Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“All right, it’s still here! But it’s just a dog, Henry. It’s nothing more than an ordinary dog.” Sherlock tries to reason, the beast howling loudly at the sky. It begins to snarl and growl angrily at them, inching its way down. Iris sees out of the corner of her eye, Sherlock noticing something behind them. Unwilling to take her eyes off the creature, Iris tries to reach out for Henry, who’s crumpled to the floor behind her. Iris hears Sherlock scuffling with whatever he’s found, suddenly stopping and shouting to them.

“The fog! It’s the fog, the drug, it’s in the fog!” Sherlock cries out, Iris looking to see Dr. Frankland in Sherlock’s grasp, a gas mask in his hand. Iris notices the fog in and around the hollow has thickened since first arriving. 

“Aerosol dispersant, that’s what it said in the record. Project H.O.U.N.D., it’s the fog! A chemical minefield.” Sherlock shouts. Iris remembers from the array of articles, moving her elbow to cover her nose and mouth, flashlight still zeroed in on the terrifying beast above them.

“For God’s sake, kill it! Kill it!” Dr. Frankland shouts, Iris watching Lestrade raise his weapon and fire. Missing his target after three shots, John takes a step forward, raises the gun he took from Henry, and shoots down the beast in two quick shots. The animal squeals in pain but falls limply to the forest floor. Iris exhales, releasing the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Sherlock moves over to Henry, pulling him forward towards the animal on the ground.

“Look at it, Henry. Come on, look at it!” Sherlock shoves him forward, Henry protesting all the while. Once close enough, Sherlock releases Henry and shines his light, Iris seeing as well that it’s nothing more than a large dog, probably a Labrador or Doberman of some kind. Henry stares at the animal before turning on Dr. Frankland. 

“You bastard. You... bastard!” Henry flies at the man, lunging and grabbing him by the shoulders, throwing him to the ground. “Twenty years! Twenty years of my life, making no sense!” Henry begins to beat the man, Lestrade and John jumping to pull Henry off and away. Iris steps between Dr. Frankland and Henry, trying to make eye contact with him.

“It’s all over now, Henry, it’s all over.” Iris tries to calm him with her voice.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?!” Henry shrieks.

“Because dead men get listened to, he needed to do more than kill you.” Sherlock explains. “He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father. And he had the means right at his feet.” Sherlock turns on the doctor, still laying on his back in the dirt. “A chemical minefield, pressure pads in the ground, dosing you up every time that you came back here. Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once.” Sherlock grins, joy dripping from his words as he laughs. “Oh, this case, Henry... Thank you, it’s been brilliant!”

“Sherlock.” Iris calls his attention, hand on her hip, ready to scold. Sherlock turns, confused.

“The timing?” John adds, one hand still on Henry. Sherlock looks between Iris and John.

“Not good?” He asks, gauging how his response was. Iris just shakes her head.

“Yeah, a bit not good.” Iris adds, turning her attention back to Henry.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Henry says, much calmer than he has been. “It’s fine. Because this means... this means that my dad was right. He’d found something out, hadn’t he?” Henry turns to Dr. Frankland as he starts to get up off the ground, John and Lestrade holding out their hand to block him from moving but still allowing him to speak his piece. “And that’s why you killed him, because he was right, and he’d found you right in the middle of an experiment!” 

Before Henry can continue further, the dog they thought was dead snarls and growls behind them. Iris turns, flashing her light on the beast just as John raises his weapon and fires again, killing the beast at last. The distraction is enough for Dr. Frankland, who takes off running out of the Hollow. The group quickly chases after him, racing through the woods in pursuit. 

Iris manages to keep up nicely with John, weaving between tightly condensed trees, opening onto a large plot of empty land. Iris watches Dr. Frankland jump over a small barbed wire fence and take off across the grass. He pauses, looking down at his feet, but before the group can get any closer, a massive explosion blasts them backward. It seems Dr. Frankland ran into a minefield, and rather than answer for his actions, he chose to blow himself up instead.

Out of breath and knocked back from the shock, Iris leans forward with her hands on her knees. John comes over to check if she’s alright, her nodding as she stands up. The light from the explosion dissipated, only a giant cloud of smoke and ash (and Dr. Frankland) billowing up towards the sky. 

The group manages to make their way back to the car, depositing Henry safely at home. Dr. Louise Mortimer found help and was glad to see Henry returned in one piece. Lestrade took their statements for the final report at Henry’s house, Sherlock driving John and Iris back to the hotel afterward. Iris collapses on her bed in exhaustion, glad to have this day behind her.

Iris packs up the little bit of luggage she brought with her, in preparation for checking out the next morning. The sun is a welcome sight, Iris rising early to have some coffee and breakfast before they head back to London. Iris finds John out early as well, waving hello to the owner Bill as she sits across from John on one of the patio tables.

“Good morning.” Iris says cheerfully, taking a sip from her coffee cup as John digs into his food. Sherlock exits carrying two cups of coffee, handing one to John.

“So they didn’t have it put down then, the dog?” Sherlock asks, looking off towards the parking lot. Iris takes a bite of her egg white omelet.

“I suppose they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it.” John says cutting into some of the dreadful soy bacon Iris swiftly avoided this morning. She looks forward to eating some real meat when she returns to London.

“I see.” Sherlock hums, taking a sip of coffee. John smirks, putting his utensils down. 

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. Sentiment?” Sherlock asks, unsure of the concept.

“Yep, good old-fashioned sentiment. Poor dog.” Iris adds, Sherlock sitting down next to John with his back to the table.

“Listen, what happened to us in the lab?” John asks, Iris trying to shake off the terror from the previous day. Sherlock promptly avoids the question, reaching for some of the sauces at the other end of the table. “No, we hadn’t been in the Hollow. How did we hear those things there?”

“Fear and stimulus, you said?” Iris adds, wondering how they saw what they saw in the controlled setting of the lab. Sherlock begins to organize the array of sauces and packets in the small basket.

“You must have been dosed with it elsewhere. In the lab, maybe? You saw those pipes, pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve. And they were carrying the gas, so... Um, ketchup was it?” Sherlock asks, desperately trying to change the subject.

“Hang on, you thought it was in the sugar.” John remembers.

“You were convinced it was in the sugar.” Iris adds, enjoying the warmth from her coffee mug knowing it’s free of any possibly strange drugs.

“We’d better get going, there’s a train leaving in half an hour, so if you want-” Sherlock checks his watch. Iris nearly drops her coffee mug back onto the table in realization.

“Oh my god. It was you. You locked us in that lab!” Iris accuses. Sherlock realizes he’s been caught and tries to explain.

“I had to, it was an experiment.”

“An experiment?!” John exclaims. “I was terrified, scared to death! You nearly sent Iris into a panic attack, what, all for a bloody experiment?!” 

“I thought the drug was in the sugar, so I put some in your coffee.” Sherlock placates. “Then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore. Totally scientific, laboratory conditions, literally.”

“That’s why the key cards didn’t work, and why you wouldn’t answer John’s calls.” Iris realizes how perfectly Sherlock must have orchestrated it all. “I bet you were watching from the security feeds in Barrymore’s office, weren’t you?” She adds, Sherlock looking away. “Also, I reiterate, I had some of Henry’s sugar the first day we were here.” Iris reminds, trying to resist the urge to punch Sherlock for the stunt in the lab. 

“Yes, but you still didn’t see it that first night. I thought I’d try again under better conditions. I knew what effect it had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one.” Sherlock says, causing John to pause mid-bite, about to turn and bite Sherlock’s head off instead. “You know what I mean.” Sherlock adds quickly. Iris snorts out a laugh.

“‘Superior mind?’ I think we’ve all got a superior mind in our own respect, Sherlock.” Iris warns lightheartedly. 

“But you thought it was in the sugar.” John continues, still fixated that Sherlock had it wrong. He takes another bite and stares at Sherlock.

“Well, I wasn’t to know you’d already been exposed to the gas.” Sherlock drinks from his cup looking out over the patio.

“So you got it wrong.” John retorts. Sherlock tries to play it off, but John won’t let him. “You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar, you got it wrong.” John says curtly, Sherlock finally admitting defeat.

“A bit... It won’t happen again.” Sherlock admits. Iris tries changing the subject.

“Any long-term effects?” Iris pushes away her finished plate, resting her elbows on the table. Sherlock shakes his head behind his mug.

“None at all. You’ll be fine once you’ve excreted it. We all will.” Sherlock explains.

“I think I might have taken care of that already.” John says while looking at his plate, taking another bite. Iris covers her mouth with her hand to stifle her laugh as Sherlock chuckles. Iris watches him make eye contact with the owner, Bill, Sherlock rising from his seat.

“Where are you going?” John asks.

“I won’t be a minute. Got to see a man about a dog.” Sherlock walks away, Iris watching him go.

“Wow, is that Sherlock Holmes going to offer his condolences about another man’s recently deceased dog? Where oh where has my time machine taken us to?” Iris asks playfully, the two teasing the idea of Sherlock and his ‘sentiment.’ 

Iris pulls out her phone, no new messages from anyone, especially Melinda. Iris sets her phone down with a sigh.

“No word from the lady at the antique shop?” John asks at her sigh. Iris shakes her head.

“It’s only been a few days, and she said she’d call one way or another in a week just to let me know... I was just hoping she’d find something sooner.” Iris shrugs and pushes herself up out of her seat to stretch. “But, it was a small thread to begin with, so I’m trying not to raise my hopes up too much.” She straightens her coat. “So we shall see.” Iris smiles, John finishing his last bite and standing up from the table. 

They head back in for their bags, checking out with Bill before they leave. He gives them all a steep discount for their work in helping Henry, even if it did result in their dog being shot. Iris helps the boys load their bags into the car, and they head off to the train station to make their way back to London. 

John and Iris play cards sitting across from each other on the train, Sherlock silently looking out the window as the countryside passes by. Halfway through the ride, while John naps, Iris’ phone vibrates in her pocket with a call. Sherlock, still lost out the window, doesn’t seem to notice. 

Being in the back of the mostly empty car, Iris answers the call as she stands from her seat, so as not to wake John. 

“Iris? This is Melinda Alcott, from Timeless Antiques?” 

“Melinda, yes, hello! How are you?” Iris asks, trying not to be hopeful that she’s calling.

“I’m doing just fine, dear. I wanted to give you a ring because I managed to find a few other necklaces with the same branding, I thought you could come in and take a look. I think I may have narrowed a handful of artists who might make similar pieces, but I have a couple calls in to see if I’m right.” The excitement from Melinda’s voice is music to Iris’ ears.

“Oh, wow, thank you Melinda, thank you. What time do you close this evening? I’m on a train back into London at the moment, but could easily be back by late afternoon, early evening.”

“We’ll be open until seven o’clock tonight, you come in whenever you can, I’ll be here.” 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Iris responds with delight. They end the call, Iris grinning as she returns to her seat. Sherlock pulls himself from the window at her return, watching her as she sits back down.

“You seem pleased with something.” Sherlock observes. Iris reaches up for her necklace.

“Just slowly solving a case of my own.” Iris says with a smile, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow.

“Oh? Do tell.” Sherlock’s interest seems genuine, so Iris decides to share. She recounts as much as she can about her past and her plans to try and find her birth parents. Sherlock actively listens without interrupting, looking through some of the notes Iris compiled on the information she has so far. John wakes up midway through the conversation, though he’s a bit more up to speed on recent developments than Sherlock. Iris finishes with the phone call from Melinda, excited to see her when they return to London. 

“Well, it is a very small lead to be going on, there could be thousands of those necklaces in existence,” Sherlock begins, starting to unravel the tiny bit of hope Iris has. An inhale from John stops Sherlock from going any further. “But it seems like any progress here is good progress, so that’s positive.”

“Thank you. Maybe once I have a bit more to go on I’ll enlist the great detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson to help.” Iris teases, wondering if she’ll ever get to that point. 

The conversation shifts to other topics as they reach Paddington Station, gathering their bags into a cab and returning to Baker Street. Iris drops her bags in her flat, not even taking her coat off before she turns around and heads right back to Melinda’s shop.

Iris enters the quiet shop and Melinda notices her immediately with a smile. She sets her knitting aside and rises, moving to the velvet tray waiting in front of her, with the small bag tagged with Iris’ name next to it. Iris breathlessly says hello, having nearly run from her flat into town, Melinda laughing warmly.

“Alright, dear, alright, catch your breath.” Iris nods, taking off her coat and setting it on the counter next to her, as Melinda pushes forward the tray. “So I found another two silver ones, and a third in gold that all have the same imprint on the back.”

Iris peers down at the three necklaces, removing hers to hold up in comparison. Sure enough, they are identical in make and size, each bearing a different name with the same thin, scrolled writing. The dots over the lower case I’s are identical, along with the curves in the S’s at the bottom.

“Any idea where they came from?” Iris asks, turning them over in her hand. Melinda reaches behind her for the leger Iris saw before.

“The two silver ones were donated with boxes from an estate sale, so I think those were a set, maybe siblings of some kind.” Melinda puts her glasses on to flip the pages of the leger. “But the gold one I can’t quite place yet. It’s of a more recent donation as my granddaughter found it in the back with items we hadn’t yet processed and distributed amongst the store.”

“I see... I agree that they all look like they’re made from the same person.” Iris reclips her necklace. Melinda nods, removing her glasses.

“Yes, and that stamp on the back, I know a few jewelers who may recognize it, so I’ve made some calls and hope to hear back from them soon. They’re old birds like me so speed isn’t quite in their wheelhouse.” Melinda chuckles. 

“That’s okay, I’m prepared to be as patient as I need to be. Any help is beyond welcome.” Iris responds, glad to have made some progress. More than her PI can say, that’s for sure.

Melinda sets the necklaces aside, promising to call the minute she hears anything, and Iris slowly winds her way back to her flat, nearly floating in excitement. The cold London rain brings her back down to reality, as Iris chastises herself from getting her hopes up again. Jogging the last couple blocks to avoid the rain, Iris makes it back to her flat determined to try and distract herself. When she ends up researching jewelers in London on her laptop, Iris promptly closes the lid and goes to check on Mrs. Hudson. 

An exciting start to her week finished with the idea of being one step closer to finding her birth parents, Iris counts herself lucky to have survived the craziness of Dewer’s Hollow, and looks forward to hearing from Melinda, whatever the news may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Planning to edit the next chapter and have it up in the next few days :)
> 
> Also, honest question, did the "I don’t have friends, I just have one" moment work? I debated for a while Sherlock saying he has two, but I still want his and John's friendship/partnership to be as strong and centered as it is in the series, with Iris joining them. Did that read/work?


	7. The Reichenbach Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!
> 
> If you've seen or know the show, there is the typical canon violence/graphic depiction of a character's death (if you want the spoiler I'll put it in the end notes so check those out beforehand!) Otherwise, most is the same, there is some brief kissing I would rate at a PG level, nothing too graphic there ;)

The news from Baskerville and Grimpen Village spreads quite rapidly after the trio’s return to London. Henry’s vindication in righting his father’s memory makes most local news stations and more photos of Sherlock in the deerstalker surface in newspapers. A few even mention Iris, Henry naming her and thanking her for her kindness and help in the whole ordeal. Most reporters don’t know who Iris is or her relationship with John and Sherlock, simply listing her as ‘associate’ or even the occasional ‘friend,’ which makes Iris smile.

Iris and John enjoy poking fun at Sherlock with his hat, cutting out any articles or photos that include him and the deerstalker and pinning them in random places around the flat. Iris was particularly pleased with her idea of hiding one behind a jug of milk, especially when sitting upstairs with them having tea resulted in a loud shout of exasperation from Sherlock. John even managed to roll up one large front-page photo and stuff it in Sherlock’s beloved sock index, leading to Sherlock ignoring John for a solid two days.

Sherlock’s dry spell of cases most undoubtedly breaks, with multiple high-profile cases landing on their doorstep. A famous painting goes missing, ‘Falls of the Reichenbach,’ and Iris answers the door to some very official-looking museum folks. The painting’s value is of utmost importance to the National Museum, begging Sherlock to bring it home as swiftly as possible.

John enlists Iris in reaching out to Raz, the spray painter who accidentally framed John back when they were searching for an answer to the yellow spray-painted ciphers. John wants to stay as far away from Raz as he can, wanting to avoid a fine or another day in court, and Sherlock is off chasing down other leads.

With her lab still closed for maintenance, Iris has some time and is eager to help. A few phone calls lead to a couple of visits to some sketchy-looking skate parks and Iris manages to track down Raz. While the artwork isn’t anywhere near his style, Raz knows a fair amount of folks in the art community, and better still he knows some popular art thieves. With Raz’s help, Sherlock manages to pin down the location of the painting within two days, much to the satisfaction of the museum. To show their thanks, they invite Sherlock, John, and Iris, to a reunion party, showering Sherlock with their gratitude.

The event is fairly stuffy, John in one of his nicer suits and Iris standing just off behind him in a knee-length navy dress and ankle-high black boots. She feels that most in attendance have no clue who she is, but she happily accepts a glass of sparkling cider and quite enjoys watching Sherlock squirm under the attention.  


“‘Falls of the Reichenbach,’ Turner’s masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” The gallery manager leads a joyous round of applause and moves closer to Sherlock with a small wrapped package. “A small token of our gratitude.” The man smiles and offers it to Sherlock. Iris takes a sip of her drink and watches Sherlock eye the present warily.  


“Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons.” Sherlock deduces the gift swiftly, earning a confused look from the gallery manager. John leans forward.  


“He means ‘thank you.’” John offers a smile, trying to make up for Sherlock’s lack of tact. Iris hides her grin behind her glass.  


“Do I?” Sherlock asks, confused as to why they’re even there in the first place.  


“Just say it.” Iris says under her breath, her drink still in front of her mouth, trying to be discreet.  


“Thank you.” Sherlock says mechanically. Feeling the interaction over with, Sherlock starts to move towards the door. John stops him and turns towards the waiting camera. Sherlock next to John and Iris flanking him on the other side, she lowers her drink and offers a fairly posed smile for the unexpected camera.  


The reporter asks for the spelling of Iris’ name and her relationship to the ‘great detective.’ Iris sticks with words she’s already seen used to describe her, ‘friend and associate’ seems the easiest and most casual description, though the man seems a bit curious about her American accent. When pressed, Iris’ first thought jumps to ‘ex-pat,’ hoping that the man leaves it at that. He does, thankfully, instead more interested in talking with Sherlock than her.  


The next day, John’s morning paper has the photo of them all on the front page, ‘Hero of the Reichenbach’ headlining it. Suddenly, a random name associated with Sherlock and John turns into physical proof and connection, Iris’ face smiling at her on the page. The caption under the photo reads ‘Holmes (right), his assistant John Watson, and associate Iris Moretti.’  


“Why do they list you as his assistant? And do they not know you’re a doctor?” Iris presses annoyedly, plucking the paper out of John’s hands. John sighs a sigh that tells Iris he’s been asking himself the same question for some time now. Glad to be of use and actually having a hand in solving the case makes Iris happy to see some recognition, but she’s unsure if this will end up being something positive in the long run.  


On the heels of the stolen painting pops up a kidnapped banker, a top executive worth a great deal of money. Iris happens to be having lunch with John and Sherlock when the doorbell rings, a frantic Lestrade asking for any help they can offer.  


Sherlock leaves with Lestrade to look over case files back at Scotland Yard, while Iris and John stay behind to do as much research as they can on their own. After a few dives down the more gossip-laced tabloids, Iris and John discover that a minor Irish mafia group put a bounty on the banker’s head, after some poor deals made last month. A quick phone call to Sherlock only to find that he’s discovered the exact same piece of information, but it doesn’t matter because they’ve located him and are rescuing the man in less than two hours.  


John laughs at Iris being surprised that something that baffled Scotland Yard so exceptionally seems like nothing more than child’s play for Sherlock. Once the man is returned to his family, they invite Sherlock to a press and photo opportunity where the banker wants to publicly thank Sherlock for his swift return.  


John and Iris tag along, Iris sure in the fact that this will be another interesting game of ‘how does Sherlock mess this one up,’ and he does not disappoint. On the steps of the banker’s home stand his family, with the banker’s arms wrapped around his wife and son gratefully. Awkwardly off to the side stands Sherlock, Belstaff collar popped up and hands clasped in front of him. John and Iris are slightly off next to him, not quite in the frame of the news cameras, but easily still within shot of most of the cameras flashing.  


“Back together with my family, after my terrifying ordeal. And we have one person to thank for my deliverance, Sherlock Holmes.” The banker says proudly, a small smattering of applause rippling throughout the reporters.  


The man’s son offers a small wrapped gift to Sherlock who takes it, shakes it slightly, and under his breath to John and Iris, “Tie pin. I don’t wear ties.”  


John shushes him as they face forward for more photos, Iris still getting used to the barrage of camera flashes and people asking questions. The next day, Iris grabs the morning paper for Mrs. Hudson, the front-page headline reading ‘Reichenbach hero finds kidnap victim’ and Iris fully in the frame along with John off on the side. She chuckles as the caption below lists Sherlock and John the same, Iris’ description changed to ‘ex-pat and close personal friend.’ Iris rolls her eyes and hands the paper off to Mrs. Hudson.  


“Why can’t they just use a photo of Sherlock and the banker with his family? John and I didn’t even really do much for that case, and now we’re being included with all this media attention.” Iris sighs as she slides into one of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen chairs. Mrs. Hudson sets the paper down and goes for the tea kettle, pouring them both a cup.  


“Well, Sherlock’s getting so popular now, much more than he was before, and they’re always interested in getting that inside scoop.”  


“I just don’t want to end up on Page Six with some scandalous story of me and Sherlock flying off to Rio.” Mrs. Hudson’s confused look reminds Iris how American that thought was. “Sorry, it’s this tabloid in the New York Post where they print the juiciest gossip, most of it is either spot-on true or so grossly fabricated no one can tell one way or the other unless the story’s actually about you.” Mrs. Hudson doesn’t quite seem to follow, but Iris chooses to let it go. The other side of the paper catches her eye.  


“Ah, it seems like that Peter Ricoletti fugitive is still evading Scotland Yard.” Iris opens the paper more to read the small article, Mrs. Hudson tutting at the intense-looking mugshot of the man. The doorbell rings out front, Iris taking a last sip of her tea before going to answer it. Lestrade paces outside the front door, sighing in frustration at Iris.  


“Is he in?” Lestrade asks pitifully. Iris holds open the door in response, following the detective as he climbs the stairs. John sits at the desk, typing at his laptop, while Sherlock plucks at the strings on his violin while lounging in his chair.  


“This is the third time this week we’ve had a lead and lost him. Can you come?” Lestrade doesn’t even have to explain, Sherlock already moving to put his violin away and grab his coat. Iris peers over John’s shoulder to see what he’s up to, his blog open and a new post half-written.  


“This one the banker or the painting?” Iris asks, John typing the last of his sentence and hitting save. He rises and moves for his coat, answering as he walks.  


“The painting, I’m behind with everything happening so quickly. And now Peter Ricoletti still out there, I don’t know when I’ll be able to write it all up.” Iris follows John and the others downstairs, listening as Lestrade details out their most recent plan.  


“No, that won’t work.” Sherlock swiftly shuts him down, Iris grabbing her coat from the foyer before following them out to the street. Sherlock stops at the sight of the police car. “And I won’t go in the police car, we’ll take a cab and meet you there.”  


Lestrade, at his wit’s end, simply nods and climbs into the police car as John hails a cab. They clamber in, Iris sitting backwards behind the driver as Sherlock pulls out his phone to search something. John pulls out his notebook, recounting some recent details to Iris as they make their way to Scotland Yard. There seems to be someone on the inside feeding Peter information and tipping him off before they can capture him. Sherlock stays quiet for the majority of the ride, angrily typing and swiping at his phone until a message alerts and he grins with a ‘gotcha!’  


Lestrade waits for them out front of Scotland Yard, Sherlock opening the cab door before the driver fully stops. John rolls his eyes and pays for the cab as he and Iris climb out. Sherlock explains that he has some friends in his homeless network who have located, and somewhat contained, Peter Ricoletti just on the other side of town.  


Iris taps John on the elbow, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock as he talks with Lestrade, to ask him what Sherlock’s homeless network is.  


“He has people, all over, that he pays to help keep him informed of the goings-on in the city. Most of them are actually homeless, so even the smallest amount of change gets them talking. He’s paid for a handful of them to have mobile phones to help with his communication, but usually, he just wads up a note and hands it off with some money, gathering the info later as they go out searching.”  


“Wow, that’s actually rather brilliant.” Iris stops herself. “Don’t tell him I said that,” she teases. John chuckles and they turn their attention back to Sherlock. Within the hour they have Peter Ricoletti in custody, Iris witness to the whole takedown, amazed at the multitude of ‘homeless network’ folks that helped Sherlock in tracking the man down.  


With Peter Ricoletti being such a notable man, Sherlock earns himself a nice, packed press conference full of dozens of reporters and photographers at Scotland Yard. Triple in size to any of the previous media outlets, Iris stands off to the side with John in awe at the notoriety. Even fellow detectives and officers are there, Iris catching Anderson and Sergeant Donovan in the back. Lestrade leads the press briefing, cameras flashing the entire time.  


“Number one on Interpol’s most wanted list since 1982. But we got him. And there’s one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads, with all his customary diplomacy and tact.” Lestrade offers sarcastically, Iris snorting quietly next to John. He leans over to explain to Sherlock that Lestrade was, in fact, joking, earning a deadly stare from Sherlock. The crowd erupts in applause, Sherlock painfully smiling at them all.  


Lestrade moves from his microphone to join Sherlock, handing over a wrapped gift explaining that they all chipped in for it. Sherlock tears open the paper to see a crisp new deerstalker hat. Iris grins as she watches John restrain himself from laughing out loud. The group giggles at the hat, one of the cameramen shouting ‘Put the hat on!’ from somewhere in the crowd. Others follow suit, and Iris sees Sherlock’s face fall at the idea of having to wear the hat again. No one can argue that the deerstalker is anything but Sherlock’s hat now.  


“Just get it over with.” John says under his breath, Iris trying to reassure him with a smile. Sherlock hands Iris the wrapping paper, mustering all his strength to remain calm as he puts the hat on. Camera shutters quicken in speed, flashes doubling as Iris has to blink to keep from losing her sight. The room breaks out into more applause, everyone just so glad to see Sherlock back in ‘his hat.’  


The following day Iris decides to head out to the local newspaper stand to see just how many different papers Sherlock managed to get himself in with that hat. The more reputable papers have dignified photos of Sherlock in the deerstalker, while the gossip tabloids choose more ‘caught off guard’ photos with loud headlines like ‘Boffin Sherlock Solves Another.’ Iris buys seven different copies, toting them upstairs as she finds John sitting on the couch with a variety of papers in front of him.  


“Seven different papers. And that’s all the newsstand at the end of the block had, so who knows how many other’s he’s made it into.” Iris reports, plopping down the papers in her hand on the coffee table. She sits down next to John and begins to search through them all.  


Sherlock enters dramatically in his dressing gown (or as dramatic as he can with it flapping behind him), clearly upset at the array of press.  


“‘Boffin?’ _Boffin_ Sherlock Holmes.” He scoffs as he throws a paper down in front of John and Iris on the couch.  


“Everybody gets one.” John explains, reaching for the paper Sherlock threw.  


“One what?” Sherlock asks as he paces the length of the living room.  


“Tabloid nickname. SuBo, Nasty Nick. Shouldn’t worry. I’ll probably get one soon.” John tries to offer, opening a new paper.  


“Page five, column six, first sentence.” Sherlock throws out quickly, still lost in thought. “Why is it always the hat photograph?” Sherlock reaches for the hat on the mantle, angrily punching at it in his hand.  


John looks to Iris, as she realizes she has page five in her hands and offers it to him. He scans the columns, finding his nickname.  


“‘Bachelor John Watson.’ Bachelor? What the hell are they implying?” John asks, offended, to Iris. She just shrugs.  


“I mean, it could be worse, right? I’m just glad I don’t have one.” Iris says gratefully. Sherlock throws out “Page seven, column five, second sentence,” before resuming his tirade against the hat. Iris jumps as fast as she can towards the right page, deliberately ignoring John’s smirk as he realizes she has a nickname too.  


“‘Sweetheart?’” Iris looks up, stunned. “Sweetheart? Who’s sweetheart am I? Sherlock’s?!” John snorts at the thought, Sherlock hasn’t heard a word from either of them. “I guess if they overgeneralize you as a man it’s only fitting they do the same to me.” Iris straightens out the paper angrily in her hands.  


“What, would you have preferred something like ‘Yankee Bird’ instead?” John teases.  


“‘Yankee Bird?’” Iris scoffs. “Just because I’m from America does _not_ mean I automatically love the Yankees. I actually hate the Yankees, I’m a Mets fan through and through, and this whole nickname nonsense is crap.” Iris groans as she leans back on the couch, paper draped over her face.  


“It could be worse, right?” John offers jokingly, Iris blindly reaching out to whack him lightly on the arm as she laughs behind the paper. Realizing that Sherlock still won’t shut up about the hat, Iris moves the paper away to sit up. Her vision restored, Iris watches as Sherlock takes the hat in both hands and angrily flips it around, trying to figure out what is just so great about it.  


“Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?” Sherlock demands, John barely looking up from the paper.  


“It’s a deerstalker.” Iris answers from the couch. John finds another paragraph with his nickname and inhales sharply through his nose before reading.  


“‘Frequently seen in the company of Bachelor John Watson and Sweetheart Iris Moretti.’” Iris leans to look over John’s shoulder at the mention of her new nickname. She looks up in time to watch Sherlock try and process the idea of a hat being able to hunt down a deer.  


“How do you stalk a deer with a hat? What am I going to do, throw it?” Sherlock practices tossing the hat like a frisbee, John still lost in his paper.  


“‘Confirmed bachelor, John Watson!’” He exclaims at another find. Iris watches Sherlock nearly let go of the hat out the window.  


“Maybe it works like some sort of death frisbee?” Iris mimics Sherlock’s motion, pretending to throw an imaginary hat herself. “You aim for the deer and if it lands perfectly on its head you win and it kills the deer. No blood, just death by hat.” Iris teases, earning a terrifyingly annoyed glare from Sherlock. John sets down the paper, folding his hands and looking to them both.  


“Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful.” John warns.  


“It’s got flaps. _Ear_ flaps, it’s an ear hat, John.” Sherlock swiftly ignores him, tossing the hat towards them on the couch. It quietly hits John in the shoulder, him catching it and looking to Sherlock seriously.  


“What do you mean more careful?” Iris offers, taking the hat from John to examine it.  


“I mean, this isn’t a deerstalker now. It’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective anymore. You’re this far from famous.” John holds up his fingers only inches apart, looking to Sherlock to see if he understands what he’s saying.  


“Oh, it’ll pass.” Sherlock brushes off, landing in his chair with a soft thud.  


“It better pass. Press like this? This can go downhill real quickly.” Iris offers as she takes in the vast amount of newspapers scattered in front of her all talking about Sherlock, some even her and John.  


“The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn. And they’ll turn on you.” John says just about as serious as Iris has ever heard him. Sherlock notices this as well, taking a moment to watch John’s face.  


“It really bothers you.” Sherlock offers, almost surprised. John asks what he means, Sherlock furthering. “What people say, about me. I don’t understand, why would it upset you?”  


John shifts in his seat, looking at the papers in front of him before looking back to Sherlock. “Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.” John leans back on the couch, taking up a different paper and opening it to read, promptly ending the conversation.  


Iris plays with the deerstalker in her hand, untying the ear flaps and holding them open, an extension of her ‘death frisbee’ idea. Sherlock watches her and Iris tosses the hat like a frisbee, landing right in his lap.  


“Maybe something small will pop up on your website, or maybe you don’t even need a case this week.” Iris offers with a small shrug. Sherlock hums in acknowledgment but looks off down the hallway in thought. Iris gathers up the handful of papers she brought in and decides to head back to her flat.  


No one rings the doorbell for the rest of the afternoon, Iris thinking maybe Sherlock will in fact find a quiet week ahead of him. Around 3pm someone knocks on the front door, just as Iris is elbow deep in washing some dishes. Hoping the boys upstairs will get it, Iris lets it go, hearing footsteps down and then back up the stairs.  


Dishes finished, Iris video chats with Sam and holds up the various newspapers with Sherlock’s photo and even the ones that include her and John.  


“You’re in the paper? Like hundreds of thousands of people are sipping their morning coffee or tea and looking at _your_ face?!” Sam asks, bewildered.  


“I know, right?! I’ve even got a nickname; Sweetheart. I’m ‘Sweetheart Iris Moretti,’ but no mention of _whose_ sweetheart I actually am!” Iris sets the papers down and flops into the armchair in her living room.  


“I wonder if rumors will start that you’re dating one of them, can you imagine?” Sam teases, Iris groaning at the thought.  


“Please no, I’d take ‘Yankee Bird’ before I’d take those rumors!” Iris recalls John’s joking alternative. Sam takes great offense to the idea of her being a Yankees fan.  


“Hey. I don’t care what happens, you cannot let yourself be called a Yankee! Everyone here will never forgive you.” Sam warns and Iris chuckles because she knows he’s right.  


“I know, Sam, and believe me, I never thought something like this would happen. The cameras are there for Sherlock, he’s the one they want, but John is also with him, they solve the cases together so naturally he’s included too. But me? I mean I help solve some of them, recently I’ve been helping a lot...” Iris trails off.  


“Well, not everyone is working side-by-side with the great detective Sherlock Holmes, so of course they’re going to want to know who you are eventually. You certainly have earned some celebrity status back home, a bunch of social media apps are sharing Sherlock’s more prominent cases, especially the one with the international kidnapping scheme. At least three of our friends have messaged me with screenshots asking if it really was you!”  


“Wow... I honestly don’t know what to think of all this... It is weird that I’m actually excited about it all? Like I don’t need to be famous or anything, but the attention is a bit exhilarating.” Iris confesses, Sam grinning.  


“Of course! That’s totally valid, it’s exciting to be in the spotlight a bit...” Sam’s expression changes slightly. “Just be prepared when rumors and things like that start surfacing, you know how trashy gossip can be. It doesn’t matter what you do, they can come up with anything.” Sam cautions.  


“Yeah, John’s said much of the same. He’s worried for Sherlock’s sake that the media will turn on him... We shall see.” Iris shrugs. A text from John upstairs leads Iris to finish up her chat with Sam and head up to their flat.  


Apparently, the client at the door is trying to prove that his roommate did not commit suicide but was actually murdered and John needs a hand at the shops to buy an array of strange items for Sherlock. Iris grabs her coat and heads out with John, looking at the list in her hand.  


“Where can you buy a life-sized mannequin in London? I mean the rope we can probably get at a hardware store, but what, are we going to steal it from one of the windows?” Iris asks as they make their way into the heart of Central London.  


“I figure we can gather everything else up first, and then maybe a clothing store might have a spare we can buy? I’m honestly not too sure.”  


“You know, I remember Melinda’s store having a handful of mannequins in her shop windows... I wonder if she’d let us borrow one?” Iris offers, John liking the idea. They gather everything except the dummy in less than an hour, taking a cab over to Melinda’s shop.  


Iris opens the door, Melinda perched on her stool knitting as usual. She looks over her glasses and smiles at their entrance. Iris heads right for the counter as John takes a moment to look around the store.  


“Iris, dear, it’s good to see you! But I thought I told you I hadn’t heard from any of my old contacts yet...” Melinda trails off, unsure of why Iris was stopping by.  


“I’m actually not here about that today, I know it’ll take some time. I wanted to ask about one of your mannequins in the window up front.” Iris pokes her thumb over her shoulder back at the two figures wearing an array of colorfully vintage clothes.  


“My mannequins?” Melinda asks, noticing John as he joins Iris at the counter with a small smile. Her eyes go wide in recognition. “Oh, has this got to do with Sherlock Holmes?” She asks excitedly. “One of his cases?”  


“Yes, actually... Any chance we could buy or maybe borrow one for a few days? I would try and explain why, but with Sherlock, it’s best left up to the imagination.” Iris teases, John nodding in agreement. Melinda moves to the end of the counter, shifting up the countertop so she can pass through and join them in the middle of the store.  


“If you’ll help me get it down, it’s all yours. As long as you need!”  


“Thank you, Melinda, we will pay you for your trouble, and have it back, ideally in one piece, by the end of the week.” Iris hopes she can follow through on the ‘one piece’ part.  


They make quick work of removing the mannequin from its stand and taking off the outfit, dark wash jeans and a brightly colored billowing shirt folded neatly on the counter. Of course, the dummy is life-sized and therefore takes both John and Iris all their might to carry it out of the store. Melinda holds open the front door for them, John and Iris offering their thanks as they lug it out to the curb.  


John hails a cab with one hand while keeping hold of the mannequin’s feet, Iris shifting one of the bags higher up on her shoulder as she fixes her grip under the dummy’s shoulders. Iris is grateful for its soft muslin and loose joints, making it easier to sit up in the cab. They ignore the cabbie’s strange look as Iris clicks the seatbelt over it just to be safe.  


Iris and John end up chuckling most of the ride back, as the emotionless mannequin sits upright between them in the cab. Iris snaps a few photos of her and John making silly faces with the dummy, earning a few more odd looks from the cab driver.  


Once back to Baker Street, Iris and John somehow manage to lug the giant dummy up the stairs and plop it on the living room floor. Iris hands John the bag on her shoulder, him taking that and the one in his hand to the dining table. Sturdy rope, a men’s suit (pocket square included), and a pair of black dress shoes tumble out, Iris moving to tear open the package on the rope.  


Sherlock emerges from his bedroom at the sound of their return, eager to put his experiment to the test. Within no time the dummy has the full suit on, shoes included, and Sherlock swiftly kicks them both out for a bit while he runs the test. Iris invites John down for some tea while they wait, Iris wondering just how it’ll go.  


John stays for a few hours as they watch television and play cards, Iris ordering Chinese takeout as Sherlock’s still taking his time upstairs. They ordered more than they realized and stop in on Mrs. Hudson to see if she’d like to join. The three end up in Iris’ kitchen scarfing down the food and chatting about the day.  


With still no word from Sherlock, John decides to just head up to his room since he has access without going through the living room. He tells Iris to come check on them the next morning, and hopefully Sherlock will have an answer by then.  


Iris does just that, glad to see their front door open and John in his chair, hair wet from his morning shower and reading the paper. Another step into the room and Iris nearly jumps at the mannequin now hanging from the ceiling in the entryway between the living room and kitchen. Sherlock sits at the dining table, head bent down to his microscope.  


“So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?” Iris asks, announcing herself at the same time. John looks up from the paper with a laugh, Sherlock pulling his head up from his microscope as well.  


“Oh. Henry Fishguard never committed suicide. Bow Street Runners missed everything!” Sherlock picks up an open book and slams it shut with a puff of dust.  


“Well, glad to see his roommate was right, and that John and I didn’t lug that giant dummy around London for nothing.” Iris moves towards the desk chair closest to the fireplace and sits down facing John.  


“Pressing case, is it?” John asks over his shoulder, still reading his paper.  


“They’re all pressing till they’re solved.” Sherlock replies, refocusing his microscope as he speaks. Iris studies the mannequin hanging from their ceiling, wondering how long it took Sherlock to get it up there, and how he managed to keep the shoes on while doing it.  


“It looks like Melinda will get her mannequin back in one piece after all.” Iris grins. Sherlock’s mobile phone beeps on the desk next to her. John looks towards the noise over the top of his paper, listening as Sherlock makes no move to answer it.  


“I’ll just get it then.” Iris says at John’s look, picking up the cell phone to read the text. The signature sends a chill down Iris’ spine and her hand begins to shake. “Oh god.”  


John sets his paper aside and leans forward in curiosity, Sherlock not moving from his microscope. Iris stands in shock, trying to speak but unable to. John rises and takes a step or two closer to look at the screen in Iris’ outstretched hand. His eyes bulge as he reads the same message, taking the phone and moving to Sherlock at the table. He holds it out as Iris stands next to him, nervously buzzing with anxiety.  


“Not now, I’m busy.” Sherlock brushes John off.  


“Sherlock.” John warns, phone still outstretched to Sherlock.  


“Not now.” Sherlock demands again, never taking his eyes off his work.  


“He’s back.” Iris squeaks out, Sherlock’s head slowly rising up to meet their worried faces. Sherlock takes the phone and reads the message.  


_Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x._

Iris’ phone buzzes in her pocket, she pulls it out to see a text from Lestrade.  


“Have you checked your phone at all today, John?” Iris asks. But before John can respond, Lestrade calls Iris’ phone. She answers it and puts it on speaker. “Hey there Greg, I’m upstairs with John and Sherlock, you’re on speaker. What’s happening?”  


“There’s been a break-in, well, ah... Three break-ins actually. But we have him, we have the bastard. It’s Moriarty. Jim Moriarty.” Lestrade’s voice is panicked and stressed through the phone, Iris looking between John and Sherlock to see their reactions.  


“Break-ins, where?” Iris wonders where Moriarty managed to break in that could have led to his capture.  


“We have no clue how he’s done it, but he knocked out the security at Pentonville Prison, opened the main vault at the Bank of England, and smashed the glass surrounding the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London. All within minutes of each other. He just let himself be taken in, wearing the bloody Crown Jewels on his head. We need Sherlock, now. Hell, all of you if you can help.”  


“We’re on our way.” John says through the phone, Iris ending the call as Sherlock rises from his chair to put on his coat. John, still in his robe from his shower, runs upstairs to change quickly before meeting them both downstairs and jumping into a cab.  


“How did he manage to break into all those places at once? I mean that vault and those security systems have to be state of the art...” Iris asks as she looks out the window of the cab.  


“He’s a world-class criminal mastermind, I’m sure he found access somehow...” Sherlock answers, lost in his phone.  


Once at Scotland Yard, John and Iris follow Sherlock into a room where they have the security feeds up on the screen. Lestrade hits play and they watch as Jim Moriarty manages to break through the glass surrounding the Crown Jewels.  


“That glass is tougher than anything.” Lestrade groans, as Moriarty on camera writes something backward on the glass, pulls out the chewing gum in his mouth to stick to the glass, and hits it with the end of a fire extinguisher, shattering it all to the floor.  


“Not tougher than crystallized carbon. He used a diamond.” Sherlock answers, studying to film intently. Lestrade hits a few keys and another camera angle pops up, this time from the front of Moriarty, and they play the tape backward to just before the glass shattered. The words Moriarty wrote on the glass read ‘GET SHERLOCK’ with a smiley face in the O. Sherlock gives nothing away in his reaction, John and Iris sharing a severely concerned look. It seems Moriarty is back, and back with a vengeance.  


Unable to do more until Moriarty has been processed and interrogated, the three return back to Baker Street to wait for a call from Lestrade. Unable to just sit around and wait, Iris asks John to help her return the mannequin to Melinda’s. She offers Melinda a small sum of money as gratitude, nearly having to coerce her into taking it, as Melinda keeps rejecting it as too much. Iris tucks it into the pages of the leger on the counter when Melinda isn’t looking, and they head back.  


The ‘Daily Express’ the next morning has a giant photo of Moriarty with the ‘GET SHERLOCK’, the headline asking if this is the “Crime of the Century?” Other headlines read “Jewel Thief on Trial at Bailey,” explaining how this is one of the most internationally acclaimed crimes in decades. It seems the quiet week of Sherlock keeping his head down went right out the window.  


Six weeks pass, as things are set in motion to begin Jim Moriarty’s trial. Sherlock is called to be an expert witness for the prosecution, John and Iris slowly ticking off the days until the court date. Iris hears from Melinda a couple of weeks into the wait, saying the majority of the jewelers she’s reached out to haven’t called back. The two she has heard from have never seen this style of work but may try a few others who Melinda hadn’t thought of. She assures that she’s still trying and won’t give up.  


Melinda offers a few other retired jewelers who may know something about her necklace, but the phone numbers she had on file were disconnected. Instead, she’ll try sending a physical letter in the mail, but Melinda warns that this will only lengthen the waiting. Iris assures her any length of time is fine as she knows how thin of a lead this is, and the waiting isn’t so bad now that she has Moriarty to worry about.  


As the trial looms closer, Iris sits with John as they explain to Sherlock just how important it will be for him to not be a show-off in court; they can’t afford their star witness being kicked out and barred from the courtroom before any helpful testimony gets through. Sherlock, of course, brushes them off and says he knows exactly what needs to be done and they shouldn’t worry. This, of course, makes them both worry. Immensely.  


Iris goes back to work when the maintenance finishes, making sure to utilize her sick days for the trial. The day arrives and Iris prepares for the long road ahead of them. Dressed in a knee-length dark grey pencil skirt paired with her favorite burgundy blouse with the ruffled sleeves and little tie at the neck, Iris hopes for things to go smoothly. There is so much evidence stacked up against Moriarty that this trial is really more of a formality; he’ll have to be found guilty, or at least she hopes he will.  


Iris waits for John and Sherlock by the front door, one of her lighter coats on and bag over her shoulder. Through the front door, she can hear the hordes of press people standing out waiting for Sherlock to appear. She noticed them the day before, as she came back from the market there were a handful of folks waiting outside of Speedy’s, staking out their place when they knew Sherlock would be leaving the next morning.  


Footsteps down the stairs pull Iris from the door, Sherlock moving past her silently with John close behind. They pause at the door, John looking to Sherlock to see if he’s ready for the press outside. Sherlock looks between John and Iris, nodding with a ‘yes,’ as John swiftly opens the door.  


John leaves first, trying to clear out a path for Sherlock, Iris bringing up the rear as she tries to keep her head down towards the car. Thankful for security guards to help manage the crowd, the three make their way through the hordes of cameras flashing and reporters pelting them with questions until they are securely in the police car Lestrade sent for Sherlock’s safety.  


Iris sits up in front with the officer driving, not wanting to crowd Sherlock in the back. The officer turns on the overhead lights to zip through traffic on the way to the courthouse. Once out of the immediate traffic the officer turns the siren off, Iris grateful for the quiet. She turns in her seat to see Sherlock staring out the window, silent. A further turn of her head and she makes eye contact with John, nervous energy radiating between them. John looks to Sherlock for a moment.  


“Remember-” He starts, Sherlock cutting him off swiftly.  


“Yes.” Sherlock keeps his eyes looking out the window, obviously not wanting to hear this from John. He tries again, Sherlock cutting him off once more.  


“Remember what they told you.” Iris finishes, hoping he’ll be less likely to brush her off than John. “Don’t try to be too clever.” Iris warns, remembering her conversation with John about how easily Sherlock will be able to anger any judge that may preside over this case.  


“Please, just keep it simple and brief.” John adds in.  


“God forbid the star witness in the trial should come across as intelligent.” Sherlock mutters pointedly.  


“Intelligent, fine, they all know you’re intelligent, Sherlock.” Iris replies.  


“Let’s give smartarse a wide berth.” John adds. Sherlock pauses before responding.  


“I’ll just be myself.” Sherlock throws out casually, causing Iris to shake her head as John forcefully says ‘No.’ She turns back in her seat to face forward, feeling this might be more hopeless than she initially thought.  


“Are you not listening to us?” John asks, Sherlock rolling his eyes quite spectacularly.  


They make their way to the courthouse, the front steps littered with more press and reporters each detailing for their different networks how this is truly the crime of the century. John and Iris wait in the main hallway before the courtroom opens, Sherlock pulled off by the prosecution to talk once more before starting.  


Looking around, Iris excuses herself off to the bathroom, figuring this might be a long trial that she does not want to miss a second of. As she’s washing her hands, Iris notices a young redhead wearing a deerstalker at the sink next to her. Seeing the woman staring, and Iris not wanting to be rude, she smiles softly and reaches for the soap, hoping that’ll be the end of it.  


“Are you Iris Moretti?” The girl asks, Iris pausing slightly as she scrubs her hands. Unsure of just who she is, Iris stays somewhat wary but decides to answer the question.  


“Uhh, yes I am. I take it you’re a fan of Sherlock’s?” Iris eyes the deerstalker and then also notices a large “I love Sherlock!” button on her lapel. The woman nods vigorously. Then she stops, tilts her head, and asks a question Iris did _not_ expect.  


“What’s it like being Sherlock’s sweetheart?” If Iris had a bar of soap in her hands she would have dropped it right to the floor. Thankfully she didn’t, managing to reach for the paper towels without knocking them all over.  


“Umm... I’m not Sherlock’s sweetheart.” Iris tries to play it off casually, unsure how crazy this woman might be. Part of her senses this woman isn’t just a fan as she seems too put together with her outfit, and the hat is just too on the nose. The woman doesn’t believe Iris.  


“But you’re in so many of the photos with Sherlock and they’re calling you sweetheart, you live with him at Baker Street, if you’re not Sherlock’s sweetheart then whose are you?” The woman takes a step closer, invading Iris’ personal space. Iris has a few inches on her in height, but it’s never pleasant to have someone this close. Iris tries to take a step back, but the tile wall next to the door stops her from moving.  


“Honestly, I don’t know where that name came from, truly. And I don’t live _with_ Sherlock, I’m just their downstairs neighbor. Sometimes I help on cases, we’re friends, that’s it.” Iris tries to keep her voice from trembling, this strange girl’s eyes bearing down into hers.  


“Everyone’s saying it’s more than friendship with you two so why don’t you just admit it, you’d be so famous if you gave everyone the juicy inside scoop.” Iris doesn’t respond, finding a way to sidestep out from this woman’s gaze. ‘Inside scoop’ shifts Iris’ initial thought of ‘fan’ to ‘reporter’ fairly quickly.  


“Really, you have it all wrong, we’re just friends. And if I did have any sort of ‘scoop’ I wouldn’t want to share it, especially with someone who stalks people in the bathroom.” Iris feels her courage creeping back into her now that she knows this isn’t some psycho fan, just a desperate reporter looking for some insider’s gossip on Sherlock.  


“Well, if you ever decide to come clean and admit you and Sherlock are actually lovers, give me a call. I’ll do your story justice, I swear.” Suddenly the girl produces a small business card, forcing it into Iris’ hand before swiftly exiting out the bathroom door. Relieved to be away from her, Iris leans against the cool tile behind her with a sigh.  


Checking herself in the mirror before leaving, Iris straightens the pins holding back her half-up-half-down hairstyle, trying to keep her breathing steady. Looking down at the card in her hand, simply the name ‘Kitty Riley’ and a phone number listed, Iris pockets the card and decides to ignore what happened. Just someone obsessed with Sherlock trying to add to the gossip. They have bigger things to worry about with Moriarty.  


Iris exits the bathroom to rejoin John, checking her watch to see that it’s almost time. Iris asks where Sherlock went, as she sees the prosecution making their way in without him. The overhead announcement calls out to tell folks to move into Court Ten for Moriarty’s case.  


“He went off to the loo, I think, just a few minutes ago.” John answers, Iris realizing that she doesn’t see the redhead amongst the smattering of people entering the courtroom.  


“You go in and save me a seat, I’ll be right back.” Iris takes off towards the men’s bathroom, listening at the door as she hears Sherlock’s voice, along with Kitty’s. She can’t make out the words, so she chooses to open the door instead.  


“-but I’ll give you a quote if you like. Three little words.” Sherlock’s voice drips with loathing as Iris sees him reach for Kitty’s hidden recording device, raise it to his lips, and spit out “You. Repel. Me.”  


“Hey.” Iris calls out sharply, Sherlock unmoving but Kitty jumps. “Kitty? Is it? Yeah, whoever you are, leave him alone, now.” Iris warns with her stern voice. Sherlock doesn’t break eye contact, simply drops the recorder back into Kitty’s pocket, Kitty squirming beneath his stare and Iris’. “Let’s go, Sherlock, they need you in court now.” Sherlock turns and exits the bathroom, Iris holding the door so she can give one last glare at Kitty. The woman stands there, stunned into silence, Iris huffing out a laugh as she lets the door swing shut in Kitty’s face.  


Sherlock makes his way in with the prosecution through a different door than Iris, who scans the crowd until she catches John offering a small wave to get her attention. Iris weaves her way through the rows of people, climbing the stairs in this grand courtroom. The lawyers and judge sit in robes with the white curled wigs Iris thought people only wore in movies.  


Finally to John, she sits down and quickly explains what just happened with Kitty in the bathrooms. She pulls out the business card, showing it to him.  


“So what, is she a gossip columnist?” John asks, bewildered at the exchange.  


“I’m not sure, she had a recording device hidden in her pocket so maybe? But the business card makes me think more like a reporter. But it’s all gossip, honestly-” Iris shakes her head, turning as she catches a glimpse of Jim Moriarty in the crowd, stopping her midsentence. Anxiety ripples through her at the sight of the slender man, memories flooding her vision of the darkened swimming pool.  


_Red sniper lights on her chest, the weight of the bomb vest strapped to her, the smell of chlorine and chill of the air. Sherlock pointing his gun at the crumpled vests on the floor, Iris sure this was the end of it all._ Iris’ breath quickens and she’s lost in the memories, John putting a firm hand on her shoulder to try and shake her back to the present.

“Iris, breath, just breath, you’re here.” John mutters quietly under his breath, just for Iris to hear. She inhales sharply as the past falls away, a small smile to John to try and convey that she’s okay. She shakes her head to kick out any lingering feelings from the memories, and John places his hand on hers at her knee with a reassuring squeeze.  


“Thank you.” Iris whispers, squeezing his hand back as the court falls silent for the judge to begin speaking. John pulls his hand away as the two sit in anticipation of Sherlock’s testimony.  


Opening statements start the trial off, fairly straightforward in what the prosecution plans to prove, while the defense’s half-hearted opening seeming odd given the amount of money Moriarty must have. He could afford the best defense attorney in the country and he picks someone who doesn’t even seem like he’s read the case file?  


Soon, the prosecution calls Sherlock to the stand. Swearing in and standing before the crowd of onlookers, jury included, Sherlock looks odd to Iris. Maybe because she’s more used to him climbing about the furniture in his dressing gown...  


The prosecutor begins to question Sherlock about Moriarty, calling Sherlock the ‘expert’ on the matter.  


“A consulting criminal?” The woman asks, pulling the quote from one of her many notebooks.  


“Yes.” Sherlock manages to maintain simplicity with his answers, though both Iris and John know this can go downhill faster than imaginable.  


“Your words. Can you expand on that answer?”  


“James Moriarty is for hire.” _Good, keep it simple, just like that,_ Iris thinks to herself.  


“A tradesman?” Sherlock confirms the term, making eye contact with Moriarty across the room. Iris can’t quite tell from that far away, but it seems like he’s chewing gum? Iris doesn’t know how a man in such strong custody, surrounded by hoards of officers, managed to sneak in a piece of gum. “But not the sort who’d fix your heating?”  


“No, the sort who’d plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I’m sure he’d make a pretty decent job of your boiler.” Iris chuckles under her breath at Sherlock attempting a joke, John shifting in his seat with a smirk.  


“Would you describe him as-” The prosecutor begins, only to be cut off by Sherlock.  


“Leading.”  


“What?” The woman seems rightfully confused, Sherlock trying to keep the defense from objecting, only to interrupt the questioning himself.  


“Can’t do that. You’re leading the witness. He’ll object and the judge will uphold.”  


The very stern-looking, angry judge throws out a warning “Mr. Holmes,” and Iris hopes he can pull it together long enough to not get thrown out.  


“Ask me how. _How_ would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Did they not teach you this?” Sherlock asks, annoyance laced in his last question.  


“Mr. Holmes, we’re fine without your help.” The judge warns. A rustling behind Iris pulls her focus, her and John turning to see Kitty Riley having joined them up in the same seating area. She must have spotted them when she walked in, wanting to get a closer look. Iris stares her down before promptly ignoring her, turning her focus back to Sherlock.  


“How would you describe this man, his character?” The prosecutor offers.  


“First mistake, James Moriarty isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider. A spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.” A bit dramatic Iris thinks, though it is Sherlock and he’s most certainly not wrong about Moriarty and his ‘web.’ The prosecutor doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, choosing to try a different question.  


“And how long-“  


“No, no, don’t... Don’t do that. That’s really not a good question.” Iris can see Sherlock’s eye-roll from all the way across the courtroom. And with it, the judge’s patience grows thinner and thinner.  


“Mr. Holmes!” The judge starts, only for Sherlock to cut him off as well.  


“How long have I known him? Not really your best line of inquiry,” Sherlock throws to the prosecutor, “we met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun, he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something.” Sarcasm dripping off that last line, Sherlock makes a slight face towards Moriarty who simply shrugs in response.  


“Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert? After knowing the accused for just _five_ minutes?” The judge demands, Iris wondering if the prosecution knew this fact or not before Sherlock took the stand.  


“Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.” Sherlock retorts, Iris leaning over to John slightly.  


“Is it just me, or is he about to go into ‘show off mode?’” Iris whispers, watching the wheels in Sherlock’s head turning.  


“He’s been in ‘show off mode’ since he got up there, but yeah, this won’t be good...” John whispers back.  


“Mr. Holmes, that’s a matter for the jury.” The judge motions over to the jury members, Sherlock shifting his line of sight to take them all in, one at a time.  


“Oh, really?” Sherlock squints his eyes slightly, Iris wondering how many deductions he’s made about them all in just two seconds. John crosses his arms and puts a hand to his head, just as Sherlock opens his mouth again. “One librarian, two teachers, two high-pressure jobs, probably the city. Foreman’s a medical secretary, trained abroad, judging by her short hair.” Iris pinches the bridge of her nose trying to stay calm.  


The judge tries to interrupt but Sherlock’s on a roll and there’s no stopping him now. “Seven are married and two are having an affair, with each other, it would seem. Oh, and they’ve just had tea and biscuits. Would you like to know who ate the wafer?” Sherlock asks the judge, Iris holding her breath as she can almost see smoke billowing angrily out of the old man’s ears.  


“Mr. Holmes! You have been called here to answer Miss Sorrel’s questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess. Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt.”  


“Did we not tell him that? Like, I’m not imagining that conversation we had in the car over here, and in your flat the night before, right?” Iris asks under her breath, hand reaching up to tug anxiously at her necklace. John only lets out a quiet sigh in response.  


“Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?!” The judge shouts, Sherlock unmoving in his place on the stand. There is a moment where Iris thinks maybe, just maybe, Sherlock will comply and carry on as expected. But he does not.  


Almost too quickly to keep up, Sherlock deduces something about the judge’s wife and suddenly there’s an uproar in the crowd, the gavel bangs loudly and security men are escorting both Sherlock and Moriarty swiftly out of the courtroom. A recess is called and everyone moves to either stand or exit while the courtroom regroups. Iris and John stay in their seats.  


“We’re going to have to bail him out, aren’t we?” John asks quietly shaking his head. Iris rolls her eyes and leans forward with her elbows on her knees, her head hanging in her hands.  


Eventually, some order is restored and the court reconvenes to continue on. The prosecution calls witnesses from each of the three locations Moriarty broke into, clear evidence being brought in that it was Moriarty and with each item, the defense simply sits there. For the entire case. Not a single objection, nothing brought into evidence to try and clear Moriarty whatsoever. After the third time of the defense saying they have no follow up or rebuttal questions, Iris looks to John.  


“Sherlock thinks he’s doing it deliberately. Not putting up any sort of fight, just letting things ride out.” John explains under his breath.  


The day comes to a close with court resuming at ten in the morning the next day. Iris and John make their way to the holding cell to collect Sherlock. They wind down a few narrow hallways, Iris shivering at the thought of Moriarty being locked up close by. John fills out some paperwork with the guard in charge, and soon Sherlock emerges, followed by two guards.  


John leans disapprovingly against the counter as Sherlock collects his wallet and phone that were confiscated on his arrival, Iris standing with her arms crossed next to him.  


“What did I say? I said, ‘Don’t get clever.’” John scolds, shaking his head with an annoyed smile. Neither of them is surprised this is where they’re collecting Sherlock, but they had to have some hope he’d make it through.  


“All you had to do was keep it short and simple- you didn’t have to deduce the entire jury.” Iris adds, Sherlock signing the last of the paperwork.  


“I can’t just turn it on and off like a tap.” Sherlock turns to walk towards the exit, John and Iris following. “Well?”  


“Well, what?” John asks.  


“You both were there for the whole thing. Up in the gallery, start to finish.”  


“Like you said it would be. Sat on his backside, never even stirred.” John explains.  


“Each chance for a rebuttal or follow up was denied, he’s not even paying attention when the prosecution speaks, it’s bizarre.” Iris recounts.  


“Moriarty’s not mounting any defense.” Sherlock concludes, as they make their way out a back door and outside. Sherlock moves to the curb to hail a cab, Iris glad to see a lack of reporters and photographers. They hop inside a cab to head back to Baker Street.  


“Does he just know he’s going to lose? So he figures, why put up a fight?” Iris thinks aloud in the cab. John taps his fingers on the door, Sherlock lost in thought out the window.  


“None of it makes sense, really.” John says.  


The ride is short and mostly quiet, the sun setting as they travel. With the early nightfall and coming by cab, any of the reporters hanging around Baker Street nearly miss their arrival, the three ducking inside before anyone can swoop down on them. Iris follows the two upstairs, flicking on the light switch by the couch.  


“Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville.” John thinks aloud, moving to sit in his chair as Sherlock paces, fingers steepled under his chin. “Three of the most secure places in the country, and six weeks ago, Moriarty breaks in, no one knows how or why. All we know is-”  


“He ended up in custody.” Sherlock interrupts, still thinking, his face shifting. He looks to John and then to Iris, who’s sitting on the couch, coat off in her lap.  


“Don’t do that.” John warns, Iris tilting her head in confusion.  


“Do what?” Sherlock asks, confused as well.  


“The look. You’re doing the look again.” John explains, Iris starting to catch on.  


“Well, I can’t see it, can I?” Sherlock retorts, John pointing to the mirror as Sherlock takes in his reflection, still confused. “It’s my face.”  


“Yes, and it’s doing a thing.” John furthers, not much help to Sherlock.  


“It’s your ‘we all know what’s really going on here face,’ Sherlock. You do it all the time.” Iris offers, John glad to see someone on his side.  


“Well, we do all know what’s really going on.” Sherlock responds, not catching on.  


“No, I don’t, and I don’t think Iris does either.” John retorts, Sherlock looking to Iris.  


“I have no clue to be quite honest.” She says, shrugging.  


“Which is why I find ‘the face’ so annoying.” John huffs.  


Sherlock sighs before responding.  


“If Moriarty wanted the jewels he’d have them. If he wanted those prisoners freed, they’d be out on the streets. The only reason he’s still in a prison cell right now is because he _chose_ to be there.” Sherlock resumes his pacing. “Somehow, this is part of his scheme.”  


“So, he wants to be found guilty?” Iris tries to follow Sherlock’s logic.  


“I’m not sure yet...” Sherlock paces a few more times before moving to his violin, the only sound in the flat being him playing. John rubs at his temples in exhaustion, Iris yawning as the music starts to lull her to sleep.  


Sherlock moves to pace and play up and down the hallway to his bedroom, Iris taking the opportunity to stand and call it a night.  


“Same time tomorrow?” Iris confirms, John nodding as he yawns and starts to make his way to his bedroom as well.  


In a strange feeling of déjà vu, Iris and John make their way back to the courthouse, Iris in the same pencil skirt but a dark green button-up blouse on instead. Sherlock’s recent ban from the judge leaves him home alone. The reporters out front are disappointed in the lack of their favorite detective, Iris just glad to see them leave as she and John hop into a nearby cab.  


Back in the gallery, John and Iris watch as everyone settles in for another day, this one dedicated to whatever case the defense will bring forward on Moriarty’s behalf. The judge begins.  


“Mr. Crayhill, can we have your first witness?” He asks. The quiet man behind the desk, who hasn’t said more than two full sentences throughout this whole trial, rises slowly.  


“Your honor, we’re not calling any witnesses.” The man says calmly.  


“I don’t follow. You’ve entered a plea of ‘not guilty.’” The judge sounds as confused as everyone sitting in the gallery with them.  


“Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence. The defense rests.” And with that, Mr. Crayhill sits down, and hushed whispers ripple out in the courtroom. Iris watches as Moriarty turns towards the gallery behind him, finding her and John in the crowd. Still chewing gum, he makes a strange grimace in their direction, before turning back to face front.  


“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary. Crimes which, if he’s found guilty, will elicit a very long custodial sentence and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty.” The judge’s stern enthusiasm makes this one of the most clear-cut cases Iris has ever heard, this has to be the final nail in Moriarty’s coffin.  


The jury breaks for deliberation, John and Iris slowly making their way out to find a bench in the hallway to wait.  


“This is a no-brainer, right? I’m not missing some major aspect here where suddenly he’ll be innocent and go walking free, right?” Iris asks, her leg bouncing nervously as she watches the people passing by.  
“It would seem so, but at this point-” John begins, only to be promptly cut off.  


A door slams, the judge in his robes swiftly making his way back down the hallway.  


“Coming back!” He calls out as he passes John and Iris, John looking down at his watch.  


“That was six minutes.” He calls out in disbelief. The judge stops and turns back to them.  


“Surprised it took them that long, to be honest. There was a queue for the loo.” He says as he rights the wig back on his head and disappears behind the door.  


“Moment of truth.” Iris says as she and John stand to reenter the courtroom. Everyone settles and they begin the reading of the verdict.  


“Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?” The judge asks, trying to hide his slight enthusiasm for what’s about to happen. The foreman rises, looking to the judge.  


“We have Your Honor. We the jury, find the accused, James Moriarty, not guilty on all charges.”

Chaos erupts in the court: the gallery gasping in shock, the prosecution looking to the judge confused, the judge himself sits gobsmacked in his seat. Iris watches in horror as the guards surrounding Moriarty move forward with keys and begin to unlock the handcuffs at his hands and feet. With a huge grin on his face, Moriarty shakes the hand of his defense team, then quickly exits the courtroom. Iris reaches out for John’s elbow, a realization suddenly hitting her.  


“Oh my god, Sherlock.” The two rise and try to fight their way through the throngs of people, desperately trying to get back to Baker Street. With the trial officially over, reporters and cameras swarm the people leaving, Iris and John swept up in the chaos of it all.  


Finally outside, they attempt to hail a cab but there are so many people they end up having to walk towards another street to try there. Once away from the large crowds of people, John pulls out his phone and calls Sherlock, walking swiftly down the sidewalk, Iris trying to spot a cab.  


“Not guilty. They found him not guilty.” John exclaims as soon as Sherlock picks up. “No defense and Moriarty’s walked free. Sherlock? Are you listening to me? He’s out. You know he’ll be coming after you. Sher-” John looks at his screen to realize he’s been hung up on.  


“We’ve got to get back, now.” Iris says, scanning the roads for a cab. They walk for almost ten minutes before finally spotting a free cab, urging the driver to make it back to Baker Street as quickly as possible.  


Anxiously waiting to get back to check on Sherlock, both Iris and John jump out of the cab as soon as it rolls to a stop. Iris has the change ready to hand through the window, following John quickly in and up the stairs.  


Nearly out of breath from running up the stairs, both John and Iris stand breathing heavily in the doorway, only to find Sherlock standing at the window with his back to them playing the violin. He turns at the commotion and sets his violin back in its case.  


“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, John moving to look down the hallway and in the kitchen. Iris stays in the doorway watching Sherlock, finally catching her breath.  


“Moriarty, he left the courthouse so quickly we thought for sure he’d come after you. Are you alright?” Iris asks, John stands by his chair still confused. Sherlock waves his bow.  


“Oh, yes he stopped by a short bit ago. You two just missed him actually.” Sherlock says as if it were the most casual thing in the world, a mastermind consulting criminal stopping in like that’s a perfectly normal occasion.  


“What? He was here, in the building?!” Iris trembles at the thought.  


“We had tea. Nothing to worry about.” Sherlock clicks his violin case shut and moves off towards the kitchen, John just watching.  


“I feel like we have everything to worry about if Moriarty was here.” John warns, looking around the flat unable to find anything out of place. He removes his coat and places it over the back of his chair before sitting down. Iris leans against the doorway, trying not to imagine Moriarty invading this space or even her own flat downstairs.  


“I just don’t understand how... how did he manage to walk free? Everything was stacked so perfectly against him...” Iris wonders, John humming in similar thought. “Do you think he got to the jury? Blackmailed them somehow?”  


“That’s a very likely theory, but no way to confirm it.” John responds, still lost in thought.  


“So, what now?” Iris asks, looking to John who simply shrugs.  


“I’m not sure... I guess we wait and-” John starts, Sherlock interrupting from the kitchen.  


“Moriarty will let us know when he’s ready to play.” Sherlock says behind a mug of tea as he walks down the hallway to his bedroom.  


“I guess he will...” Iris looks out towards the window, long white drapes fluttering lightly in the breeze.  


Iris tries to move forward in the coming months, though she constantly feels like she’s looking over her shoulder at every noise and shadow. Other than going out for work or groceries, Iris stays close to Baker Street, keeping to watching television with Mrs. Hudson or hanging out with John and Sherlock upstairs.  


In the buildings nearby, Iris notices a few moving trucks pop up, new residents moving to Baker Street. It seems like a handful of men and one young woman each individually move in over the course of a week. Iris bumps into the woman exiting Speedy’s one day. She has a thick accent, probably Russian though Iris can’t place it, and compliments Iris’ plum-colored coat. She is glad to see more young women living on Baker Street as her building is mostly filled with men. They chat for a bit before parting ways, Iris offering to meet her for a drink soon.  


After the Moriarty trial, the high profile cases seem to quiet down, Sherlock dealing with more issues popping up on his website than from Scotland Yard. Lestrade stops by a few times as the weeks roll on, Sherlock swooping in and solving things with little to no help from John or Iris. It feels almost quiet, almost normal, but every so often Iris remembers the fact that Jim Moriarty is out there and about to start his newest game any day now.  


On an early summer afternoon, Iris walks with John to the grocery store, John needing to stop off at the ATM beforehand. Iris leans against the stone building as John hunches over the machine. He puts his card in and punches in his PIN, an alert calling out that there’s a problem with his card. He huffs and Iris looks over to see what’s the matter.  


The message then reads _‘Thank you for your patience. John.’_

“What? Why does it know...” Iris starts to ask, a large black town car catching her attention. It pulls up next to them on the street, Iris motioning with her head for John to turn around. Knowing it’s Mycroft, John just shakes his head, retrieves his card, and opens the door for Iris. They climb in and the driver takes off.  


Stopping in front of a large white building with pillars and huge windows, Iris steps out, reading _‘The Diogenes Club’_ on the plaque as they climb the steps to enter. John leads the way down a hallway, both unsure of just quite where to go. They come upon a large drawing room, individual armchairs and small tables with lamps litter the room with a handful of old men reading papers who don’t look up as they enter. John moves over to one of the elderly men in an armchair, startling him from his newspaper.  


“Uh, excuse me, we’re looking for Mycroft Holmes. Would you happen to know if he’s around at all?” John asks, the man obviously hearing him but, with a confused look on his face, he does not respond. Iris looks around at the other men who have turned their heads at John’s voice, concern reading across each of their faces, one man looking at Iris in horror.  


“Can you not hear me?” John furthers, leaning in a bit closer to the gentleman. The old man starts to huff with loud breaths, obviously quite upset at John’s presence. John backs off, asking the room of men as a whole, hoping one of them knows where they can find Mycroft. When no one responds, Iris realizes they must be in a silent room of some kind, where no one speaks at all.  


“Anyone at all know where Mycroft Holmes is?” John asks again, fully annoyed now. Iris watches as the man John first spoke to lifts his cane and reaches for a small button on the wall next to him, ringing a far-off bell somewhere. The man staring at her in horror blinks twice, almost like he can’t believe his eyes at the sight of Iris.  


“John, I don’t think they’re allowed to talk.” Iris says hushed, John upset no one wants to respond. She clutches onto the shoulder strap of her black bag, seriously uncomfortable with the stares from these old men around her.  


“Am I invisible? Can you actually see me?” John huffs out, looking from one confused face to another. Iris tugs on his coat sleeve, pointing towards two butler-looking men with white gloves and paper covers on their shoes entering the room. “Ah, thanks, gents. We’ve been asked to meet Mycroft Holmes.”  


Before John can say anything else, the two officials grab him by the arms, muffling him with one hand and dragging him out. Iris starts to speak to object, changes her mind, and simply follows them out the room down the hallway, John struggling the whole time.  


Finally, they make it into what looks like a grand office of some kind, with Mycroft sitting at an ornate wooden desk. With a wave of his hand the two gentlemen strong-arming John let go and disappear. Mycroft rises and moves to his drink cart, pouring a drink as he speaks.  


“Tradition, John. Our traditions define us.” Mycroft explains coolly, John straightening his coat with a huff.  


“So, total silence is traditional, is it? You can’t even say ‘pass the sugar?’” John asks.  


“Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half of the Government front bench all sharing one tea trolley? It’s for the best, believe me. They don’t want a repeat of 1972.” Mycroft says grimly.  


“I take it they also don’t allow women in, by the looks of some of those men.” Iris adds, moving with John towards the two armchairs in the middle of the room. Mycroft eyes her over his glass as he takes a drink.  


“Tradition,” is all he offers as he moves towards them, “but we can talk in here.”  


John notices some of the more gossip-heavy tabloid papers sitting on the table, picking them up as he asks, “You read this stuff?” John passes the paper to Iris as he sits. She moves her bag into her lap and holds the paper to read the front page.  


“Caught my eye. Saturday, they’re doing a big expose.” Mycroft responds. Iris reads the headline, ‘The Shocking Truth,’ a big exclusive coverage written by Kitty Riley. It seems someone close to Sherlock has given her the complete full access inside scoop on Sherlock, and Saturday everything will be laid out for the public to read.  


“That’s the girl from the bathrooms at the courthouse. She cornered me and then Sherlock just before the trial started...” Iris explains, noticing the black and white picture of Kitty in the corner. Without the deerstalker, she looks somewhat more professional, but she still makes Iris angry at the sight.  


“I’d love to know where she got her information.” John adds, noting the amount of detail promised in the coming article.  


“Someone called Brook. Recognize the name?” Mycroft asks, still standing behind another armchair. Iris thinks back to all the people she’s met recently, or at least since Moriarty resurfaced, and the name doesn’t pop up at all.  


“School friend, maybe?” John offers, Iris folding the paper up and setting it in her lap. Mycroft laughs at the thought.  


“Of Sherlock’s?” Mycroft chuckles at the thought before changing topics. “But that’s not why I asked you both here.” He moves to pick up a handful of files, crossing the room to hand half the stack to John, the other half to Iris. She opens the top file to see some photographs and personnel files of some intimidating individuals.  


“Who’s that?” John asks at the file in his hands.  


“Don’t know him? Never seen his face before?” Mycroft asks, John denying both questions. Iris looks over at the photo John has, recognizing him immediately.  


“That’s one of the new neighbors next door, Sulejmani. I only caught him in passing on my way home from work, but he moved in five days ago.” The memory comes clearly back to her, lost in her bag searching for her keys as she bumped into him on the sidewalk, knocking a box out of his arms. The interaction was short, first names exchanged, and that was that, Iris never thinking anything more.  


“He’s taken the flat two doors down from you.” Mycroft furthers, surprised that Iris recalls his name and face so clearly.  


“I was thinking of doing a drinks thing for the neighbors.” John adds, Iris realizing what these files might possibly mean. She flips open another one to find the face of the young woman she met outside Speedy’s. The file lists her military and espionage background, Iris able to nail down her accent as Russian, along with some frightening details Iris had no idea about.  


“I’m not sure you’ll want to.” Mycroft says cynically. “Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly trained killer, living less than twenty feet from your door.”  


“He seemed so, normal...” Iris says confused, John simply staring at the photo.  


“Well, it’s a great location. Jubilee Line’s handy.” John adds sarcastically, not picking up what Mycroft’s meaning here. “What’s it got to do with us?”  


“I’ve seen at least three of these four people, or hitmen crazy assassins it now seems, all move into Baker Street in less than a week, John. That can’t be a coincidence.” Iris flips through more of the files.  


“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Mycroft adds.  


“Actually, I think I have seen her.” John says, looking at the photo in Iris’ hands.  


“Dyachenko, Ludmila. Russian killer. She’s taken the flat opposite.” Mycroft explains, Iris closing the files in her hands and leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.  


“Okay, I’m sensing a pattern here.” John starts to figure it out as Mycroft sits in the chair across from them both.  


“As Iris said, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of 221B. Anything you care to share with me?” Mycroft asks mockingly, John laughing in response.  


“I’m moving?” John responds, Iris chuckling now.  


“Me too. I offered to grab a drink with Dyachenko, I’m very glad now that I didn’t.” Iris hands over the files to Mycroft.  


“It’s not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?” Mycroft replies.  


“You think this is Moriarty?” Iris asks, thinking it the only logical explanation.  


“He promised Sherlock he’d come back.” Mycroft answers, John not buying it.  


“If this was Moriarty, we’d be dead already.” John answers morbidly.  


“If not Moriarty, then who?” Iris asks, convinced this is Moriarty’s doing. John ignores Iris and stares down Mycroft.  


“Why don’t you talk to Sherlock if you’re so concerned about him?” John asks. Mycroft does not answer, simply looking away and towards his glass on the table next to him. John sighs, Iris realizing this brotherly feud is to blame... “Oh, God, don’t tell me.”  


“Too much history between us, John. Old scores, resentments.” Mycroft offers with a sad smile.  


“Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?” John mocks jabbingly, earning a grimace from Mycroft. Iris rolls her eyes.  


“You really can’t handle this yourself because of brotherly infighting? I’ve forgiven foster siblings who I’m not even related to over less ridiculous things. That really can’t be the reason, Mycroft... is it?” Iris asks, baffled.  


John clears his throat, gathers the files in his lap, and sets them on the table with a clipped “Finished,” before rising to leave.  


“We all know what’s coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed, he’s sworn to destroy his only rival.” Mycroft warns, watching John stop before getting to the door. Iris rises to follow just as John turns back.  


“So you want us to watch out for your brother because he won’t accept your help?” John asks pointedly, clearly upset at the idea.  


“If it’s not too much trouble.” Mycroft replies simply.  


“Oh yeah, not too much trouble, let’s just invite Moriarty out for a drink, no big deal, not like he’ll try and kidnap us or blow up half the city again.” Iris mocks as she moves to John. “Goodbye, Mycroft. Come on, John let’s go.” She tugs on his elbow as she passes, leading the way back out to the main entrance, hailing a cab as soon as she gets to the curb.  


“The absolute nerve of that man. He makes my blood boil sometimes!” Iris says angrily to John as the cab pulls up. John just sighs as they climb in. “He really can’t put some childish feud behind him even to save his little brother. It doesn’t make any sense.”  


“When has anything relating to the ‘Holmes’ name ever made any sense?” John offers, earning a laugh from Iris. The ride back to Baker Street is quick, Iris trying to recognize any of the faces from Mycroft’s files on the street outside their door. But before she can look too closely, a beige envelope on their doorstep catches her eye. She also sees the front door hanging wide open, Iris glad her own door is locked up tight.  


John pays for the cab as Iris crosses the street, bending down to pick up the envelope. She turns to show it to John as he joins her on the front step. No address or any writing at all on either side, only a bright red wax seal closes the envelope. A silent nod from John, Iris tears it open, crumbs falling out and landing on their shoes. John catches some of the crumbs in his hand, Iris raising the envelope closer to try and tell what exactly it is. It looks and even smells like breadcrumbs, nothing else in the envelope to explain anything.  


“Excuse me,” a hefty man carrying a ladder calls, John pulling Iris gently out of the way as the man moves inside their front door.  


“Sorry,” Iris calls back, watching him enter and move towards Mrs. Hudson’s flat. She must be having some work done, noticing a couple of toolboxes and tarps sitting in the foyer. Iris puts the envelope in her bag as they move inside. Iris follows John up the stairs to see if Sherlock is there, to discuss their new ‘neighbors.’  


“Sherlock, there’s something weird-” John starts as he enters the front door, Iris realizing Sherlock’s not alone in the flat. Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan are standing with him, files in their hands mid-conversation.  


“What’s going on?” Iris asks, Sherlock only looking up in passing as he moves to the desk.  


“Kidnapping.” Sherlock goes to open his laptop, Lestrade stepping closer to him as he speaks.  


“Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the US.” Lestrade explains, John confused.  


“He’s in Washington, isn’t it?” John asks.  


“Not him. His children. Max and Claudette. Aged seven and nine. They were at St. Aldate’s.” Lestrade continues, Donovan holding up her file that includes photos of the two children. Iris moves closer to see their smiling faces, heart dropping at the thought of them being taken.  


“St. Aldate’s? Where’s that?” Iris asks.  


“It’s a posh boarding place down in Surrey.” Donovan answers.  


“School broke up. All the other boarders went home. Just a few kids remained, including those two.” Lestrade sighs with frustration, obviously at a loss for any sort of lead.  


“The kids have vanished.” Donovan furthers.  


“The Ambassador’s asked for you personally.” Lestrade says to Sherlock as he rises from the desk and moves for his coat.  


“The ‘Reichenbach Hero.’” Donovan calls towards him mockingly. Lestrade and her follow Sherlock out the door.  


“Isn’t it great to be working with a celebrity?” Lestrade says playfully as he passes Iris with a wink. They all follow downstairs and into a slightly larger gray official police SUV parked on the street.  


The ride takes about an hour, Lestrade updating Sherlock with as much information as he has, which granted isn’t much. Donovan chooses to sit in the far back to work on her laptop, Iris next to John in the middle. They try to find a time to bring up the envelope with breadcrumbs, but it never seems to come.  


Finally in Surrey, a large brick boarding school looms closer and closer. They pull up to police cars and crime scene vans littering the driveway. Leaning against the hood of one of the cars is an older woman with a blanket around her shoulders, handkerchief to her nose. Her curly hair is disheveled and her blush pink cardigan untucked from her skirt. They climb out of the car, Lestrade pointing her out to the group as they walk closer.  


“Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy.” Lestrade warns Sherlock before splitting from them to move inside. Sherlock makes his way over, John and Iris hanging back to wait. Sherlock walks right up to her, standing to his full height, towering over her trembling frame.  


“Miss Mackenzie. You’re in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night! What are you, an idiot, a drunk, or a criminal?!” Sherlock barks, startling the poor woman. Iris and John start to move towards Sherlock to shut him down. Before they make it, Sherlock has grabbed the edge of the blanket over the poor woman’s shoulders and ripped it off. “Now, quickly, tell me!”  


Breaking into a small sprint, Iris arrives at Sherlock’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder to pull him back, just as the woman responds.  


“All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No one, not even me, went into their room last night. You have to believe me!” She cries. Sherlock bends down, his face softening.  


“I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly.” Sherlock offers a small smile and hands the blanket back to her before turning and walking into the building. “Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now.” Sherlock calls over his shoulder to Lestrade, Iris bending down to offer a warm smile and gently pat the woman on the shoulder. One of the female police officers comes over and rewraps the blanket around Miss Mackenzie, Iris stepping back so she can follow John and Sherlock inside.  


“Sherlock, was that really necessary?” Iris asks as they wind down another long hallway towards the children’s bedroom. Sherlock ignores her, lost in thought as he scans every inch of the area. Iris gives up and takes in her surroundings. Endless doors, bedroom after bedroom with beds and bookshelves, toys and desks littered. Peering into one of the open doors, Iris freezes.  


_Loud wailing of new orphans crying for their lost parents, children fighting and arguing over toys or pillows. Iris, only twelve, being bullied and pushed to the ground by the bigger kids. Never full, always that slight pull of hunger as she tries to do her homework, wearing her only two pairs of socks at the same time in the cold Wisconsin winters._

A warm hand on her shoulder pulls her back to the present, John scanning her face in worry. Iris pulls her coat closer around her and offers a smile that ends up being sadder than she intended.  


“It just reminds me... things I hadn’t thought about in years. I’m okay, honest.” Iris adds, moving from the doorframe as Sherlock reaches a curious bedroom a few yards away.  


“Did you ever go to a boarding school?” John asks, Iris shaking her head.  


“No, I spent a rather unpleasant two years at an orphanage in Wisconsin. I have no clue how I ended up in Wisconsin of all places, but I remember the cows in the backyard. They eventually closed down due to funding and I just got placed back in the foster care system.”  


They arrive at the room Sherlock’s just entered, watching as he opens cupboards and looks around. Iris takes in the multitude of pink sheeted cot-like beds, some turned into bunk beds to save space. Most of them are empty, but what must be Claudette’s bed has blankets and stuffed animals strewn about.  


“How much does it cost someone to have their children attend boarding school?” Iris asks, John looking around like her.  


“Six grand a term... you’d expect them to keep the kids safe for you... So the other kids had all left on their holiday?” John asks Lestrade as Sherlock drops to his knees and looks under Claudette’s bed.  


“They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in. The intruder must have been hidden inside someplace.” Lestrade postulates, Sherlock rising with a found lacrosse stick, swinging it slightly. He drops it with a thud before moving on. Sherlock opens a trunk, Iris unable to see in from where she stands, before moving away and asking where the brother slept.  


Down another hallway they reach the room Max stayed in, slightly smaller with only a handful of blue sheeted cots inside. Sherlock enters looking around, finding the corner that must have been Max’s.  


“Boy sleeps there every night. Gazing at the only light source, outside the corridor. He’d recognize every shape, every outline. The silhouette of everyone who came to the door.” Sherlock explains, Iris noticing the cloudy window on the bedroom door.  


“Okay, so?” Lestrade asks, confused.  


“So, someone approaches the door who he doesn’t recognize. An intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon.” Sherlock moves out into the hallway, pulling the door behind him as the rest of the group waits inside. Sherlock closes the door and Iris can see him hold his hand up like a gun, his silhouette distinct through the frosted windowpane.  


After a moment he opens the door and reenters the space, thinking aloud. “What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them, if not to cry out?” Sherlock moves from the window towards Max’s bed, noticing the multitude of books on the small shelf.  


“This little boy, this particular little boy,” Sherlock continues, kneeling down to the bed, “who reads all those spy books. What would he do?”  


“He’d leave a sign?” Iris offers, remembering similar spy books when she was a kid. Sherlock begins to sniff, some odor catching his attention. He rises and reaches for a wooden cricket bat, sniffing it intently. Dissatisfied, Sherlock sets the bat down and kneels closer towards the boy’s nightstand. Reaching down where Iris can’t quite see, Sherlock brings out a glass bottle.  


“Get Anderson.” Sherlock demands as he rises to his feet, Donovan exiting quickly.  


“What is it?” John asks, stepping forward as Sherlock hands the bottle to him. Iris peers over his shoulder at the label.  


“Linseed oil.” Iris reads, watching as John brings the bottle to his nose to sniff. The pungent oil smell wafting towards her, she realizes what Sherlock called Anderson for. “You need the blacklight, don’t you?” Sherlock almost looks surprised that Iris knew what the linseed oil was for, more than just oiling the boy’s cricket bat.  


“Yes, and we need to board up as many of the windows as we can, blocking the light out.” Sherlock moves from the room as a few of the crime scene people arrive. Sherlock explains what he needs, or more so demands it, and soon there are large plastic blackout sheets being brought in for the hallway and they move quickly to board up the window in the boy’s bedroom. Anderson hands Sherlock one of the blacklights, and once the room is in relative darkness, Sherlock clicks it on.  


On the wall just above Max’s nightstand, _‘Help Us’_ written with his finger. Anderson stands with his arms crossed staring at the message.  


“Not much use. Doesn’t lead us to the kidnapper.” Anderson snipes.  


John once told Iris about all the times Anderson and Donovan got on his nerves for how they acted towards Sherlock. Calling him ‘freak’ or trying to barre him from crime scenes. John also recounted all the fabulous ways Sherlock shut them down, either slamming doors in their face, ignoring them completely, or, Iris’ favorite, deducing the fact that they were having an affair while standing in the middle of a crime scene.  


Iris sensed on the drive with Donovan in the back that she was unhappy they were consulting Sherlock, and now with the disdain on Anderson’s face it is clear just how much they detest Sherlock’s intelligence.  


“Brilliant, Anderson.” Sherlock responds, not looking up from his blacklight on the wall. He moves towards the bed and then to the floor, Anderson asking ‘Really?’ in disbelief at the compliment. “Yes, brilliant impression of an idiot.” Sherlock finishes, Iris chuckling behind her hand as she follows Sherlock towards the door. With a wave of the blacklight, he motions to the floor.  


John clicks on the blacklight he was given and shines it towards the floor as well, illuminating footprints leading out of the room.  


“He made a trail for us.” John starts to move with Sherlock out the door.  


“The boy was made to walk ahead of them.” Sherlock explains as he moves. John peers a bit closer.  


“On tiptoe?” John asks.  


“That could indicate anxiety.” Iris follows up, Sherlock agreeing.  


“Gun held to his head. The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck.”  


“Poor things, they must have been terrified.” Iris mutters next to John, Anderson and Sherlock leading the way down the hallway. Eventually the trail dwindles away, the linseed oil having faded as they walked. Anderson stands upright with a huff.  


“That’s the end of it. We don’t know where they went from here. Tells us nothing after all.” He turns back to Sherlock, Iris wanting to smack that smug look off Anderson’s face.  


“You’re right, Anderson. Nothing.” Sherlock says plainly, Iris wondering what comeback he has planned now. “Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace.”  


Frustrated, Anderson moves past them to meet with Donovan at the other end of the hall. Sherlock reaches up to one of the blacked-out windows and removes the paneling, tossing it to the ground. He kneels down to one of the last footprints clearly visible, John and Iris standing next to him.  


Sherlock chuckles to himself as he pulls out his small case of tools, John and Iris sharing a look as the chuckle continues. They kneel down, Iris glancing down the hall at Anderson and Donovan, who both eye Sherlock with disdain.  


“Having fun?” John asks Sherlock as he pulls out some tweezers from his case.  


“Starting to.” Sherlock opens a small sample case, intending to pull up something he wants to study under a microscope later.  


“Maybe don’t do the smiling.” John replies, Sherlock pausing in his movement to look at them.  


“Kidnapped children?” Iris offers, still baffled by his extreme anti-social behaviors at times. Sherlock doesn’t respond, simply bends down to scrape up the wood from the kidnapper’s boot print, Iris and John rising.  


Satisfied with the evidence he has, Sherlock decides he wants to head back as he needs to get to Bart’s to work on his samples. Lestrade still has to close out the crime scene, so the three get a cab for the ride back to London. Iris pulls out her fidget cube to silently fiddle with, the thought of Max and Claudette cold and scared somewhere increasing her anxiety.  


John looks quietly pensive out the window for most of the ride, when suddenly a thought occurs to him. “How did he get past the CCTV? If all the doors were locked.”  


“He walked in when they weren’t locked.” Sherlock responds.  


“A stranger can’t just walk into a school like that.” Iris adds, still fidgeting.  


“Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday? End of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What’s one more stranger among that lot?” Sherlock asks, pausing in thought before continuing. “He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide.”  


Iris shivers at the thought. Soon they make it to Bart’s, Sherlock hoping out and marching right in. He stops at the vending machine of all places, grabbing a couple bag of potato chips (John and Iris watching in confusion but not questioning it, if Sherlock wants to eat something they’re fine with that) before heading up to Molly’s lab.  


Being just a couple floors above the lab Iris works at, these are familiar halls for her. They pass some coworkers on their way up, Iris greeting them quickly as Sherlock continues at a fast pace towards the lab. Almost to the main double doors, Molly pops out, coat on and bag over her shoulder, clearly on her way out.  


“Molly!” Sherlock says cheerfully.  


“Oh, hello. I’m just going out.” Molly says confusedly as Sherlock takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her around.  


“No, you’re not.”  


“I’ve got a lunch date.” Molly protests, Sherlock still pulling her along.  


“Cancel it. You’re having lunch with me.” Sherlock responds, pulling the two bags of chips out of his coat. Iris dislikes him using Molly like this just for her lab equipment.  


“You know, Sherlock, if she has somewhere to be we could easily go downstairs to the lab I work at.” Iris offers, trailing behind them down the hall.  


“Nope, I need her help.” Sherlock doesn’t even turn around as he responds. “It’s one of your boyfriends, we’re trying to track him down. He’s been a bit naughty.”  


“It’s Moriarty.” John says confused, Sherlock pulling open another door towards the lab.  


“Of course it’s Moriarty.” Sherlock replies, annoyed that John would think he means anyone else. Molly stops in her tracks, Iris next to her.  


“Jim actually wasn’t even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it.” Molly says proudly, Iris gently squeezing her shoulder in support.  


“Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England, and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly.” Sherlock lists off quickly, leaving Molly speechless as he holds up one of the chip bags again before disappearing behind the door. John follows, Iris moving to stand in front of Molly.  


“He just means any future attempts with psychopaths like Moriarty. And good for you for ending it. I don’t think there’s a lot of girls out there who can say they dumped someone like Jim Moriarty.” Iris offers warmly, trying to cheer her up. Molly smiles meekly.  


“That is true, I guess I can reschedule my lunch date.” Molly ponders, Iris smiling. “He was really cute though...”  


“And he’ll still be cute next week, but it seems that Sherlock needs you, and how often does he actually ask for help?” Iris replies, looping her arm in Molly’s as they move towards the door chuckling.  


Once in the lab, Sherlock plants himself right in front of the microscope and computer connected, typing furiously and demanding books and lab reports from one of the neighboring rooms. Iris follows Molly out, Molly somehow understanding the specific request of Sherlock, and soon they return with armfuls of books. Iris manages to kick one of the doors open with her foot, holding it as Molly passes, both of them trying not to drop their armloads. John watches Sherlock curiously, asking what he’s looking at with his sample. As Iris and Molly drop their books and reports on the table, Sherlock begins to explain.  


“The oil, John. The oil in the kidnapper’s footprint. It’ll lead us to Moriarty.” Sherlock begins placing pieces of his sample into test tubes, adding different liquids to test their reactions. “All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we’re lucky, we can see everything that he’s been up to.”  


Sherlock quickly loses himself in his work, Molly jumping in beside him to help with analysis. Iris tries to offer to help, but Sherlock brushes her off, preferring Molly’s specific chemistry background instead. Iris chooses to join John on the other side of the room, as he sifts through the police file and crime scene photos Lestrade gave them before they left the boarding school.  


John peers through the written report while Iris pages through the handful of photos. Molly leaving the lab catches her eye, but she’s probably off to grab something else for Sherlock, so Iris keeps looking through the pictures. One picture of the trunk in Claudette’s room catches her eye. She knocks John lightly with her elbow, holding out the picture for him to take.  


“John, doesn’t that look just like-” Iris asks, moving to her bag she sat on the counter near them. John’s eyes widen in realization.  


“Oh my god, yeah... Sherlock.” John calls, starting to move towards Sherlock as Iris searches her bag for the envelope. “This envelope was in her trunk. There’s another one.”  


“What?” Sherlock asks, looking up from his microscope. Iris pulls out the envelope, some breadcrumbs still inside, and joins John on the side of the counter where Sherlock sits.  


“It was on our doorstep, John and I found it today, look it’s the same seal and everything.” John hands over the photo and Iris hands over the envelope, Sherlock studying both intently. He opens the envelope and gathers some of the crumbs in his hand.  


“Breadcrumbs?”  


“Yeah, it was there when we got back- what was in the envelope in her trunk?” Iris asks, leaning her hip on the counter.  


“A book of Grimm’s tales.” Sherlock responds, slightly lost in thought. “A little trace of breadcrumbs, hardback copy of fairy tales... Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs.”  


“ _'Hansel and Gretel._ '” Both John and Iris respond at the same time.  


“Jinx.” Iris teases with a smile, the smile falling when she realizes this must have been left by the kidnapper. “Wait... What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?”  


“The sort that likes to boast. The sort that thinks it’s all a game.” Sherlock replies with a smirk. “He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me. ‘All fairy tales need a good old-fashioned villain.’” Sherlock pauses, Iris shuddering at the idea of Moriarty in his and John’s flat. “The fifth substance.” Sherlock realizes. “It’s part of the tale. The witch’s house.”  


“She lured them in with candy and sweets, didn’t she?” Iris asks, recalling the tale.  


“The glycerol molecule.” Sherlock concludes. “PGPR!”  


“What’s that?” Iris asks, Sherlock jumping up from his seat.  


“It’s used in making chocolate. We’ve got to get to Lestrade, now.” Sherlock barks, reaching for his coat on his way out the door. Iris and John scramble to grab their coats, Iris grabbing her bag and throwing it over her shoulder as they leave. Molly makes her way back, catching them in the hallway, Iris explaining briefly and thanking her for the help.  


Once at Scotland Yard, Lestrade approaches them as soon as they get off the elevator, before Sherlock can say anything about his analysis.  


“This fax arrived an hour ago.” Lestrade explains, handing the paper over to Sherlock as they walk towards his office. Scribbled hastily across the page reads, _Hurry up they’re DYING!_ Sherlock passes the page to John who holds it out for both him and Iris to read. “What have you got for us?” Lestrade asks, leading the way through the bullpen of officers and detectives.  


“We need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect.” Sherlock hands him a small piece of paper.  


“Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation, what the hell is this? Chocolate?” Lestrade asks baffled.  


“I think we’re looking for a disused sweet factory.” Sherlock offers broadly.  


“We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?” Lestrade asks, sending Donovan off to start searching. Lestrade stands over the shoulder of a young man at a computer, watching as he tries searching the things Sherlock listed.  


“No, no, too general. Need something more specific, chalk, chalky clay. That’s a far thinner band of geology.” Sherlock pauses mid-step, closing his eyes for a moment. Iris looks to John, silently agreeing he’s in his mind palace looking for something. But when his eyes open it doesn’t seem like he’s searching, it looks more like he’s visualizing a map of the entire country, eyes ticking around at different spots in the air.  


“Building site. Bricks from the 1950’s.” Sherlock offers, Lestrade groaning with the thought.  


“There’s thousands of building sites in London!” Lestrade drags both hands across his face. Sherlock manages to pull himself from his invisible map in the air.  


“I’ve got people out looking.” Sherlock answers just as frustrated.  


“So have I!” Lestrade retorts, nearly offended.  


“Homeless network. Faster than the police. Far more relaxed about taking bribes.” Sherlock replies, Iris smirking. Sherlock paces by the desks, his cell phone beeping multiple times. He pulls it out of his coat as Iris notices a stream of photos of old buildings pop up, one after the other, Sherlock visualizing them all on his map. Something catches his eye and he offers the phone to John and Iris, bright purple flowers on the screen.  


“Rhododendron ponticom. Matches.” Sherlock explains, John nodding. Iris counts off on her fingers each of the five elements they have so far. Before she can finish, Sherlock has the location. “Addlestone!”  


“What?” Lestrade looks up from the computer he’s staring at, Iris searching on her phone the name and directions as fast as she can.  


“There’s a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything.” Sherlock takes off towards the door with Iris and John running behind, Lestrade shouting at the others to come along quickly.  


Multiple police cars with full sirens and lights race forward, and what Iris’ phone predicted would take fifty minutes takes them only twenty-five. The abandoned factory stands tall and empty in the late afternoon sun, everyone dashing inside hopeful to find the missing children. Iris sticks with John, grabbing one of the flashlights from the car as they enter.  


Donovan barks for everyone to spread out as they search the dark and empty warehouse. Iris goes off, flashlight scanning as quickly as it can. She rounds a corner, opposite of Sherlock at the other end of a corridor, both their flashlights settling on a small candle surrounded by hundreds of empty candy wrappers. They run forward, Sherlock leaning down to feel the candle.  


“This was alight moments ago. They’re still here!” He shouts, everyone spreading out again. Iris follows down one narrow section, Sherlock talking in the distance but Iris focusing on a different sound. Hurried breathing and soft crying pull Iris further into the darkness. She rounds another corner, some light seeping in from windows far away, and Iris can make out two small figures tucked between some large machinery. One shine of her flashlight and Iris illuminates both children, dirty and trembling on the floor.  


“Over here!” Iris shouts as loudly as she can, moving closer to the children, the young girl sitting up with her brother’s head in her lap. “Hey there, Claudette? My name is Iris, we’re here to help.” Iris kneels down in the dirt, offering out her hand for Claudette to take. Scared, Claudette reaches out and Iris encloses her small hand in both of hers. “We’ve got you both, don’t worry.” Iris looks down to the little boy, eyes closed in what Iris hopes is sleep. She reaches over to feel for a pulse on his neck, exhaling in relief when she feels it steadily under her fingers.  


Footsteps clattering all around them, Lestrade is the first of the group to make it, John following close behind. Another officer joins and they get Max up off the floor, Iris helping Claudette stand. Donovan arrives and whisks them away to the police car, Sherlock joining John and Iris as they watch.  


“We’ll need to get them checked out, and then you can talk with them.” Lestrade explains before following the others out, Sherlock and John making their way towards the exit.  


“Why was the boy unconscious? Was there something in the sweets?” Iris asks, trailing behind John and Sherlock.  


“Mercury in the wrappers.” John explains. “Not lethal individually, but with as much as they ate it could be dangerous.”  


“Oh my god, the killer wouldn’t even need to be here, would he? Just sit them down with all those sweets and... oh no.” Iris hopes the young boy will be okay, glad to see Claudette walking on her own towards the ambulance they brought on protocol.  


Not wanting to be in the way, an officer drives the three of them back to Scotland Yard, where they wait for what feels like hours in one of the conference rooms. John sits in one of the rolling chairs, staring off towards the door, with Sherlock pacing back and forth. Iris leans against one of the windowed walls and watches as Lestrade and Donovan return with Claudette, moving towards a room to talk to her first. The little girl looks scared but glad to be in trusting hands.  


A little while later Donovan appears in the doorway, Lestrade following behind. “Right, then. The professionals have finished if the amateurs want to go in and have their turn.” She mocks. John rises from his seat, Iris pushing off from the wall to wait behind Sherlock.  


“Now, remember that she’s in shock and she’s just seven years old so, anything you can do to...” Lestrade trails off, unsure of how to finish his sentence.  


“Not be myself.” Sherlock offers, Lestrade nodding awkwardly. Iris looks over at Sherlock’s coat collar still popped in his usual style, and tugs on it slightly to catch his attention. With just a look, Sherlock understands what she’s saying and folds his coat collar down flat.  


They make their way across the hallway to the room with Claudette, Sherlock entering first. The little girl looks up from the table, takes one look at Sherlock, and begins to scream deafeningly, startling everyone. The nice social worker sitting next to her tries to calm her down, Sherlock attempting to get out a sentence, but Claudette will not ease up in her screaming. She cowers into the social worker’s arms, pointing terrified at Sherlock.  


Lestrade grabs Sherlock by the arm, shouting ‘Out!’ and yanking him from the room. Iris and John follow Sherlock, completely baffled by what just happened. They return to the conference room they were just in, Claudette thankfully quieting. Sherlock moves towards the window, staring out at the early evening dark sky. Iris sets her hip on the side of the desk while John takes a turn pacing. Lestrade and Donovan stand by the door, watching Sherlock.  


“It makes no sense!” John says, trying to work out why Sherlock’s face made Claudette scream.  


“The kid’s traumatized, something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper.” Lestrade explains, looking for some reason in this extremely strange situation.  


“Has she said anything? Anything at all about what happened?” Iris asks, running through her head as many scenarios as she can.  


“Hasn’t uttered another syllable.” Donovan replies.  


“And the boy?” John asks, Lestrade just shaking his head.  


“No, he’s unconscious. Still in intensive care.” Lestrade furthers, watching Sherlock carefully at the window. Sherlock hasn’t said a single thing since being pulled away from Claudette. “Well, don’t let it get to you, I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room.” Lestrade offers teasingly. “In fact, so do most people.” He adds playfully before leaving the room as Sherlock turns to walk out. Donovan hangs back in the doorway, stopping him.  


“Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from _just_ a footprint. It’s really amazing.” Donovan says with a bit _too_ much praise in her voice.  


“Thank you.” He replies simply, unsure of where this is heading. Iris detests the tone of her voice, mocking Sherlock and all his brilliance. Sherlock simply moves to pass by her, Donovan’s voice stopping him again.  


“Unbelievable.” Donovan says simply, enough emphasis on the word to drive in her point. Sherlock doesn’t look back at her or respond, simply moving forward and out of the room. Iris stands to follow with John.  


“That footprint said a lot, a lot more than any of you were able to figure out. That little boy is still alive because of Sherlock’s abilities.” Iris says pointedly, staring down Donovan before exiting.  


John manages to hail a cab on the curb outside, both him and Iris looking at Sherlock, noticing the severity of his silence right now.  


“You okay?” Iris asks quietly, scanning his face for some sort of reaction.  


“Thinking,” is all Sherlock offers as the cab pulls to a stop in front of them. “This is my cab, you two get the next one.” Sherlock says as he opens the door, John protesting. “You might talk.” Sherlock says flatly as he slams the door and the cab pulls away.  


“Well, then.” Iris watches the cab with Sherlock disappear down the street. Thankfully, another cab arrives moments later for John and Iris.  


“They can’t really think Sherlock had something to do with this, can they?” Iris asks, looking out the window at passing shops with their lights on.  


“It doesn’t make any sense. None of it does.” John replies.  


“But why did she scream? She didn’t scream at Lestrade, or you. Or even Donovan, and she makes me want to scream more than Sherlock does.” Iris’ reference to Lestrade’s joke earns a small smile from John, but concern still etches across both their faces.  


Nearly back to Baker Street, Iris hears what sounds like a short string of gunshots nearby. She and John both startle at the noise, just as the cab driver turns the corner. Standing on the street in front of them is Sherlock, staggering back from a man crumpling to the ground.  


“Stop the car please!” Iris shouts, opening the car door before he fully stops. “Sherlock!” She shouts as she and John jump out and run over, Iris looking him up and down for any sort of injury. “Are you alright?” Iris asks, Sherlock looking completely stunned.  


“I’m fine, I... I just don’t-” Sherlock stammers as Iris puts a hand on his arm gently.  


“It’s okay, Sherlock, just take a minute.” Iris does her best to soothe him, John phoning the police. Soon a police car and ambulance arrive to cart the dead man away. Iris watches and remembers seeing that face on one of Mycroft’s files from earlier, John noticing the same.  


“That’s him, Sulejmani, Mycroft showed us his file. He’s an Albanian gangster who lives two doors down from us.” Iris recounts, listing off the other assassins to Sherlock, explaining what John and she discussed with Mycroft. “But why is he dead?”  


“He died because I shook his hand.” Sherlock responds, still unsure as to the reason.  


“What do you mean?” John asks, hands clasped behind his back watching the scene.  


“He saved my life but couldn’t touch me. Why?” Sherlock takes off away from the police cars, only a few blocks from Baker Street. They make the short journey back on foot, Sherlock lost in thought the whole time. It’s not until climbing the stairs that he continues his thought process out loud. “Four assassins living right on our doorstep. They didn’t come here to kill me. They have to keep me alive.” Sherlock explains as he removes his coat and sits at his laptop on the desk. Iris takes off her coat and bag and drapes them over the couch.  


“Well that’s better than having a hit out I suppose, but why work to keep you alive?” Iris asks as she sinks into the leather couch.  


“I’ve got something that all of them want.” Sherlock replies, opening his laptop and clicking a few keys. John moves silently to the window, looking down at the street below. “But if one of them approaches me...” Sherlock trails off, John picking up the thread.  


“The others kill them before they can get it.” John shifts the curtain for a better look.  


“All of the attention is focused on me. There’s a surveillance web closing in on us right now.” Sherlock looks up from the laptop, scanning the apartment around them.  


“But what do you have that’s so important?” Iris asks, rising from the couch to pace in thought. Sherlock runs a finger along the desk and then holds it up to inspect.  


“We need to ask about the dusting.” Sherlock demands.  


“You mean Mrs. Hudson? I think she’s still awake, I’ll go get her.” Iris offers, moving down the stairs quickly. Hearing the television on, Iris knocks loudly and finds Mrs. Hudson in her robe. Iris brings her up as Sherlock moves about the flat looking for something. As soon as they step into the room, he begins to drill Mrs. Hudson for specifics.  


“Precise details. In the last week, what’s been cleaned?” Sherlock moves from the window to the bookcase closest to the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson following as she responds.  


“Well, Tuesday I did your lino-”  


“No, in here. This room. This is where we’ll find it. Any break in the dust line.” Sherlock searches each crevice and counter he can. “You can put back anything but dust. Dust is eloquent.” Sherlock explains with a flourish, turning to them with some dust in his hands. Mrs. Hudson looks back to John and Iris near the door.  


“What’s he one about?”  


“No clue.” Iris responds, watching Sherlock move a small chair over to the bookcase.  


“Cameras. We’re being watched.” Sherlock climbs up on the chair to reach some of the higher shelves on the bookcase, Mrs. Hudson jumping in fright.  


“What? Cameras? Here?” Mrs. Hudson asks in horror as the doorbell downstairs rings, John leaving to answer it. “I’m in my nightie!” She exclaims, moving quickly to the door. Iris watches as Sherlock moves across the fireplace mantle, checking for any sign of a camera.  


“So they’re watching you to see if you have whatever it is you have that they all want?”  


Sherlock nods, still lost in his search. He then climbs onto his own chair, looking at the higher shelves on the bookcase near the window. One of the large green hardbacks at the very top of the bookcase moves much too loose when Sherlock shifts it, pushing it back to reveal a small camera. Sherlock yanks it from the corner and stares into the lens. Footsteps up the staircase pull Iris’ focus, Lestrade surprising her as he enters with John.  


“No, Inspector.” Sherlock says without looking or acknowledging he knew it was Lestrade to begin with. Greg stares back shocked, trying to ask what he means. Sherlock simply continues. “The answer is no.” Sherlock steps down from his chair with the camera, Iris looking closely at it in his hand.  


“You haven’t heard the question.” Lestrade flusters.  


“You want to take me to the station, just saving you the trouble of asking.” Sherlock responds, moving to face Lestrade behind his chair.  


“Sherlock...” Lestrade starts, but Sherlock knows why he’s here. He starts to walk towards Greg.  


“The scream?” He asks, Lestrade sighing with a nod. “Who was it? Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping?” Sherlock furthers, Iris watching in horror as Lestrade’s face betrays him and she realizes he actually has started to doubt Sherlock. “Ah, Moriarty’s smart. He planted that doubt in her head. That little nagging sensation... you’re going to have to be strong to resist. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home...” Sherlock raises his hand to poke one finger right in the middle of Lestrade’s forehead, “there.” He lowers his hand, turning to sit at the desk behind his laptop.  


“Will you come?” Lestrade asks, one last spark of hope. Sherlock begins typing on his computer.  


“One photograph, that’s his next move. Moriarty’s game. First the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch.” Sherlock raises his head to look Greg straight in the eye. “It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I’m willing to play.” He turns back to his laptop, picking up the camera. “Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan.”  


Lestrade, beaten and out of options for the moment, leaves without another word. Iris and John stand by the desk, watching Sherlock intently working on the camera in his hand. Iris moves to the seat across from Sherlock while John stands at the window behind her. He watches Lestrade leave on the street below, Iris running a hand through her loose hair in frustration. The noise of the car fades in the distance, Sherlock looking over the laptop at John and Iris.  


“He’ll be deciding.” Sherlock says plainly.  


“Deciding?” Iris asks, leaning forward on her elbows.  


“Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me.” Sherlock replies.  


“No, really? He can’t.” Iris looks to John, unable to see that as a possibility.  


“Standard procedure.” Sherlock clicks on something on his laptop.  


“You should have gone with him.” John offers. “People will think-”  


“I don’t care what people think.” Sherlock cuts him off swiftly.  


“You’d care if they thought you were stupid or wrong.” John retorts snippily.  


“No, that would just make them stupid or wrong.” Sherlock responds, trying to shut John down. John refuses to back off.  


“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re...” John cuts himself off when Sherlock eyes him over the laptop screen. The bright glow illuminates Sherlock’s stern face.  


“That I am what?” Sherlock asks warily.  


“A fraud. Neither of us wants that for you, Sherlock.” Iris finishes, sensing the immediate tension between them. Sherlock looks at her before leaning back from the computer.  


“You’re worried they’re right?” Sherlock asks, Iris’ jaw dropping.  


“Of course not!” She replies quickly.  


“You’re worried they’re right about me.” Sherlock repeats, this time John responding with a firm ‘no’ and a shake of his head. “That’s why you’re both so upset, you can’t even _entertain_ the possibility that they might be right, you’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well.”  


“Sherlock, no, that’s not at all what we- I mean, you can’t want... I mean...” Iris trails off, Sherlock’s words twisting in her brain and tugging at the doubt Donovan had earlier. Sherlock’s mind is unlike anything Iris has ever experienced before; she’s seen it in action, she knows in her heart that Sherlock is telling the truth here. But why is it that everyone around them doesn’t see it too?  


“Moriarty is playing with your minds, both of you. Can’t you see what’s going on?!” Sherlock shouts, slamming his fist on the desk next to him. Iris jumps at the noise. She turns to John who stands there stoically, eyes fixed on Sherlock and then out the window.  


“No, I know you’re for real.” John says quietly.  


“A hundred percent?” Sherlock retorts with a bit of bite behind his words.  


“Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.” John responds, Iris bursting out with a short laugh, breaking some of the tension.  


“He’s got you there, Sherlock.” Iris leans her chin on one of her hands, watching Sherlock over the computer. One side of his mouth upturns in a small smile, worry and concern still radiating out.  


Sherlock eventually moves away from the computer, choosing his chair as the best place to think for the moment. Iris stays in her seat at the desk, turning to look out the window as they wait for Lestrade to return with a warrant. John’s phone rings and after a short exchange of words in the kitchen, he returns to the living room.  


“So, I’ve still got some friends on the force. It’s Lestrade. Says they’re all coming over here right now. Queuing up to slap on the handcuffs, every single officer you’ve ever made feel like a tit.” John explains, Sherlock not responding to a word he says.  


“Which is a lot of people.” Iris finishes, thinking of all the officers Sherlock has ever pissed off in his time working with Scotland Yard. Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door, opening it with her usual ‘yoo-hoo!’  


“Oh, sorry, am I interrupting? Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot.” Mrs. Hudson explains, an envelope in her outstretched hand to John. “Marked perishable, I had to sign for it.” John takes the envelope from her, Iris recognizing the seal from her seat across the room. “Funny name. German, like the fairy tales!”  


John begins to open the envelope, Iris and Sherlock both rising from their seats to join him as police sirens wail off in the distance. He pulls out a gingerbread cookie, burnt but still donning its candy buttons.  


“Burnt to a crisp.” Sherlock says mostly to himself, the doorbell ringing downstairs. Mrs. Hudson leaves to answer the bell, loud knocking impatiently following.  


"What does it mean? Something to do with the fairy tale?” Iris asks. Suddenly there are voices shouting downstairs, Iris and John moving to hear Lestrade, Donovan, and someone new force their way past Mrs. Hudson and climb the stairs.  


“Have you got a warrant?” John asks sternly, Iris watching him on the stairs below. She turns to see Sherlock slowly tying his scarf around his neck.  


“Sherlock, there has to be something we can do...” Iris trails off, moving closer to Sherlock. Seeing it in his face, they both know there’s nothing to be done. Silently accepting, Iris reaches for his coat and holds it open, helping Sherlock into his long Belstaff. Suddenly, the room is crowded with sergeants, Lestrade reads Sherlock his rights while handcuffs are closed on his wrists tightly by an officer.  


“Sherlock Holmes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.”  


“This is ridiculous, he’s not resisting,” John protests, visibly upset at Lestrade. Iris tries to calm him down, knowing nothing they say will change the outcome for Sherlock.  


“It’s all right, John.” Sherlock says calmly.  


“No, it’s not all right. This is ridiculous!” John furthers, Iris tugging on his elbow to try and quiet him. He wrenches his elbow away from her.  


“There’s nothing we can do, John.” Iris whispers.  


“Get him downstairs, now.” Lestrade orders the officer standing behind Sherlock. The officer grabs him by the elbow and roughly yanks him towards the door.  


“Hey, watch it there.” Iris says sternly. “I know you have to take him, but you don’t have to be mean about it.” But the officer doesn’t hear as he’s already got Sherlock moving downstairs. Lestrade starts to go, John moving into his path.  


“Don’t try to interfere, or I shall arrest you, too.” Lestrade warns exasperatedly. He exits, leaving Donovan standing with a smirk on her face.  


“You done?” John huffs out at her.  


“Oh, I said it. First time we met,” Donovan begins, moving towards the middle of the room.  


“Don’t bother.” John warns with an eye roll.  


“Solving crimes won’t be enough. One day, he’ll cross the line. Now ask yourself, what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?”  


“Jim Moriarty would. You all are just too stupid to see you’re playing right into his hand.” Iris spits out, a man’s presence at the door stopping her from saying anything else. He wears odd glasses and has a large midsection for his frame, pomp and circumstance dripping off his every move. He scans the room as he enters, looking at Donovan.  


“That’s our man?” He asks proudly as he looks towards the stairs.  


“Uh, yes, sir.” Donovan responds somewhat flustered. Clearly a higher up by her shift in demeanor, though Iris is unsure of who’s above a Detective Inspector in their chain of command.  


“Looked a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me.” The man says smugly, Iris seething in anger. She clenches her fists at her side, trying to not shout at the man and make things worse for Sherlock. “They often are, these vigilante types.” The man continues, John looking at him in shock. “What are you looking at?” He throws to John menacingly. Before Iris can stop him, John winds up and punches the man right in the nose.  


Iris manages to pull him back before he can land another blow, but the man shouts in pain and orders Donovan to arrest John for battery. Iris manages to keep her mouth shut, figuring she’d be more use to the two of them out of custody than in. She trails somewhat behind as John gets dragged downstairs and tossed up against the squad car next to Sherlock.  


Iris takes in the hectic scene out on Baker Street. Multiple police cars, a slew of onlookers across the street, some with cameras trying to figure out what’s happening. Iris manages to make her way through the officers unnoticed, and when they get distracted by the man in charge’s bloody nose, she sneaks closer to John and Sherlock who are now handcuffed together.  


“Hey, what can I do? Can I do anything?” Iris whispers hurriedly, the commotion of officers checking out their boss’ nose covering her. John turns his head to look at her, Sherlock leaning back slightly.  


“You can bail us out, that would be helpful,” John starts, Sherlock shaking his head. Before Iris can respond, Sherlock reaches into the squad car’s open front window, twisting a knob on the radio swiftly causing every single one of the officers with an earpiece to clench their heads in pain at the loud radio squeal.  


The men directly behind Sherlock and John bend over in agony, Iris jumping forward to pull off a small ring of keys from the man’s belt. Sherlock in one motion shoves the officer and grabs his firearm, pointing it at the sea of officers.  


“Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?” Sherlock shouts politely, the gun in his hand causing everyone to pause. When no one immediately moves, Sherlock raises it into the air and fires twice, proving his point. “Now would be good!”  


“Do as he says!” Lestrade calls out, the group of police crouching to the ground. Iris takes a few steps away, hiding behind one of the squad cars.  


“Ju- just so you’re aware, the gun is his idea, I’m just, uh, you know...” John stammers.  


“My hostage!” Sherlock finishes, swapping the gun to his other hand, holding it to John’s head. Iris tenses at the sight, but trusts Sherlock to somehow get them out of this.  


“Hostage, yes, that works.” John gets out, Iris close enough to hear from behind the car. “That works... So what now?” John asks as they slowly back away down an alley. Iris slinks away into the crowd of people on one side of the street, unseen by the others.  


Unable to hear what Sherlock says under his breath to John, Iris simply watches the plan shift from slowly back away to turn and break into a full-on sprint, still handcuffed to one another. Iris hears the officers shouting, some starting to run after them, unsure of which alley they went down once out of sight.  


Iris takes off down a different passage, remembering from her first weeks here that it eventually leads to a couple of back streets, and hopefully to Sherlock and John.  


Sirens wailing in the distance, Iris does her best to listen for John and Sherlock’s footsteps, unable to track them just yet. Hopping over a small rod iron fence, Iris rounds the corner to see John and Sherlock pressed up against a brick wall, Sherlock looking over his shoulder down the dark roadway.  


“Sherlock, John!” Iris says in a hushed whisper, closing the distance between her and them under the dim streetlamps. They jump at her arrival, shocked she managed to track them so quickly. “Why on earth would you run, that just made it so much worse.” Iris gets out as she tries to catch her breath.  


“Everybody wants to believe it. That’s what makes it so clever.” Sherlock explains, both he and John out of breath as well. “A lie that’s preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No one feels inadequate, Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man.” Sherlock mocks, looking over his shoulder again.  


“What about Mycroft? He could help us.” John offers, Sherlock bolting forward, taking John with him. Iris moves to grab the keys from her pocket.  


“Big family reconciliation? Now’s not really the moment.” Sherlock replies, looking around another corner. He moves again in a circle, dragging John along with him. Iris is about to offer the keys when John notices something down the way.  


“Sherlock, Sherlock! We’re being followed. I knew we couldn’t outrun the police.”  


“It’s not the police. It’s one of our new neighbors from Baker Street. Let’s see if he can give us some answers.” Sherlock explains, bolting away from Iris before she can say anything else.  


She waits by the corner, watching Sherlock as he and John move across the alleyway and closer to the street. From her dark vantage point, Iris then watches as a large man slinks his way down the alley.  


“Where are you going, Sherlock?” Iris asks, crouched in the dark across from them.  


“We’re going to jump in front of that bus.” Sherlock explains, John not having any time to react before Sherlock takes off yet again, standing right in the middle of the road. Iris watches in horror as headlights grow closer and closer. Suddenly the unknown man bolts past her, Iris following only to stop on the sidewalk as the man leaps across the street, pulling Sherlock and John safely out of the way.  


Once the bus passes, Iris bolts across the street to the three men on the ground. Sherlock reaches for the man’s gun, his other arm still handcuffed to John.  


“Tell me what you want from me. Tell me!” Sherlock demands, Iris looking around hoping there’s no one to give them away.  


“He left it at your flat.” He explains, his accent thick and dark grey hoodie hiding him.  


“Who?” Sherlock demands.  


“Moriarty. The computer key code.” Sherlock and John rise from the ground, the hitman as well.  


“Of course, he’s selling it.” Sherlock realizes. “The program he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around.” Sherlock lowers the gun, just as gunshots ring out from somewhere in the distance. Iris ducks instinctually, as do John and Sherlock, Iris grabbing John by the elbow and shouting “Run!”  


They take off down another street, ducking into an open doorway, dark and vacant. Finally out of immediate danger, Iris pulls the handcuff keys from her pocket. Out of breath and unable to speak, she simply holds them up, John laughing at the sight of them.  


“How’d you manage to get those?” John asks as he takes a few deep breaths, doubled over as he holds out the arm connected to Sherlock. Iris takes the cuff in one hand to unlock it with the other.  


“When Sherlock squawked their earpieces, thought it might come in handy. Easier than me trying to pick the lock with a bobby pin. Doors are fine, but I’ve never tried it on handcuffs.” Iris smiles, John grateful to have his wrist back. She removes the other cuff from Sherlock, pocketing the keys and tossing the handcuffs off onto a pile of cardboard boxes against the wall.  


“It’s a game-changer.” Sherlock says, unaware he’s even been freed from the cuffs, his mind working so quickly. “It’s a key, it could break into any system and it’s sitting in our flat right now. That’s why he left that message, telling everyone where to come, ‘Get Sherlock.’ We need to get back into the flat and search.” Sherlock looks around, trying to get his bearings.  


“Why plant it on you?” John asks, looking down the street at a noise.  


“It’s another subtle way of smearing my name, now I’m best pals with all those criminals.” Sherlock explains as Iris looks down at the cardboard boxes she tossed the cuffs in.  


“Yeah, well, have you seen this?” Iris reaches in and pulls out a copy of “The Sun” newspaper, the same one from Mycroft’s office earlier. “A kiss and tell. Some guy named Rich Brook. Who is he?” Iris asks, Sherlock looking off deep in thought.  


“I’ve got an idea. But we need to move quickly, we have to catch her before she gets home.” Sherlock takes off down the street, Iris and John jogging to keep up. A few streets over, Sherlock stops in front of a row of flats. He pulls out a card from his pocket, checking the address listed, before climbing the steps.  


Iris swiftly offers a bobby pin before Sherlock can pull out his own kit, picking the lock as they make their way upstairs in the dark. Iris catches the last names on the buzzer system by the front door.  


“Sherlock, is this Kitty Riley’s place? How’d you get her address?” Iris asks quietly in the dimly lit stairwell. Sherlock holds up the card, Iris looking closer to see it’s nearly identical to the one Kitty gave her, only her address has been scribbled on the back in pen. “Lucky you.”  


They make their way into her flat, choosing to sit in the dark and wait. John and Sherlock sit on the couch, Iris perched on the armrest furthest from the door. It’s starting to get later in the evening, so Kitty should be home soon.  


Eventually they hear a car door slam on the otherwise quiet street, front door downstairs opening and heeled footsteps climbing the stairs. Iris hears her pause at the slightly ajar door, Kitty slowly pushing it open and flicking the light switch, flooding the flat with light.  


“Too late to go on the record?” Sherlock asks sarcastically. “Congratulations. The truth about Sherlock Holmes. The scoop that everybody wanted and you’ve got it. Bravo!” Sherlock rises, Kitty moving to the armchair across the room and sitting, completely calm.  


“I gave you your opportunity.” Kitty warns. “I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down.” Kitty turns to Iris, still perched on the sofa. “You both turned me down. Pity.”  


“And then, lo and behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?” Sherlock demands. Kitty just shrugs, offering no details. “Oh, come on, Kitty. No one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone. There were all those furtive little meetings in cafes, those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your Dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him, eh?” Sherlock presses furtively, determined to have her reveal her source to them.  


“A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pocket, so- what were his credentials?” Iris furthers Sherlock’s line of questioning, amazed that she could trust someone blindly on something this major. Iris hears keys jingling outside, John rising from the couch to move closer to Sherlock and away from the door.  


“Darling, they didn’t have any ground coffee, so I just got normal-” A man enters the small flat. But it’s not just any man. It’s Jim Moriarty. Not in his usual bespoke suit, but jeans and a soft-looking sweater. His hair is unkempt and there’s stubble on his face, but Iris would know that face anywhere. Jim Moriarty, right in front of them. Iris rises, sharing an equal look of shock as Sherlock and John.  


Sherlock’s shock moves to absolute disbelief, the wheels in his head spinning so fast trying to analyze this turn of events. John’s mouth simply hangs open, his eyes seeming to deceive him. Moriarty looks between the three of them, concern and fear all over his face. None of the confidence or bravado from the swimming pool. He backs up against the wall behind him, dropping his shopping bag, both hands going up.  


“You said that they wouldn’t find me here.” Moriarty says timidly, utterly frightened by the sight of them. “You said that I’d be safe here.”  


“You are safe, Richard. I’m a witness, he wouldn’t harm you in front of witnesses.” Kitty says, rising from her seat. Iris looks between her and Jim, confused where the name Richard came from. This man is Jim Moriarty, the one who strapped bombs to her and John and continues to wreak havoc wherever he goes.  


“So, that’s your source?” John demands, pointing at Jim and looking back at Kitty. “Moriarty is Richard Brook?”  


“Of course he’s Richard Brook, there is no Moriarty, there never has been.” Kitty explains smugly, John unable to take his eyes off Moriarty. Sherlock hasn’t moved since the man entered, Iris still trying to wrap her head around all of this.  


“What are you talking about, what do you mean there never has been Moriarty, he’s standing right in front of us.” Iris questions.  


“Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.” Kitty replies, Iris turning her gaze back to Moriarty, who keeps his hands up defensively. John looks ready to murder the man, and Iris would as well if she wasn’t completely lost on the gag.  


“Doctor Watson, I... I know you’re a good man. Don’t... Don’t hurt me.” He begs, causing John to lose it.  


“No, you’re Moriarty! He’s Moriarty!” John shouts. “We’ve met, remember? You were going to blow me up. Her too!” John shouts some more, pointing to Iris by the couch. The man before them puts both hands over his face before lowering them in apology.  


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He paid me,” motioning to Sherlock, “I needed the work. I’m an actor, I was out of work...” he trails off.  


“Sherlock, you’d better explain, ‘cause I am not getting this.” John looks to Sherlock for an answer, Iris taking a couple steps forward so she’s standing across from John rather than behind Sherlock. Kitty moves to some papers on the table.  


“I’ll be doing the explaining. In print. It’s all here, conclusive proof.” She hands John a stack of papers and folders, Iris looking at them as well. “You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis.”  


The papers range from mock-ups of the article to background information for ‘Richard Brook.’ The article pages read _Sherlock’s a Fake!_ explaining how he ‘invented all the crimes.’  


“And to cap it all, you made up a master villain.” Kitty stands right in front of Sherlock, staring him down. John laughs in disbelief.  


“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Iris says, Kitty motioning over to Moriarty.  


“Ask him, he’s right here! Just ask him, tell them, Richard.” Kitty tries to get him to move forward. John doesn’t buy it.  


“No, for god’s sake, this man was on trial!” John shouts, Kitty turning on Sherlock.  


“Yes, and you paid him, paid him to take the rap. Promised you’d rig the jury.” Kitty turns back to John and Iris. “Not exactly a West End role, but I’ll bet the money was good.” She moves closer to ‘Richard,’ or whoever he is, wrapping an arm around him protectively. “But not so good he didn’t want to sell his story.”  


“I am sorry. I am, I really am sorry.” He pleads with his hands outstretched.  


“So, this is the story that you’re going to publish?” Iris asks, holding up one of the mock article pages. “The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty is an actor?”  


“He knows I am. I have proof! Show him, can you show them something?” The man pleads with Kitty, who moves for another folder with more info on ‘Richard Brook.’ As Kitty moves, Sherlock and Moriarty lock eyes, Sherlock’s face still unclear to Iris on exactly what he’s thinking. Iris refuses to believe this man is anyone other than Moriarty. Just like no one can fake being as annoying as Sherlock, no one can fake being as absolutely crazy as Jim Moriarty.  


Kitty holds out another folder, John and Iris each taking a side. “I’m on TV, I’m on kids’ TV. I’m the Storyteller. It’s on DVD.” He tries to explain.  


Iris pulls out excerpts of bios and headshots of ‘Rich Brook,’ resumes and reviews with photos of him in different costumes, looking convincingly like an actor. There are details and water markings that make all this information overly realistic. Iris and John flip through the countless different pages, Moriarty growing more and more restless, looking to Sherlock.  


“Just tell them.” He pleads, trying to drag Sherlock into this as well. “It’s all coming out now. It’s all over. Just tell them, tell them, just tell them!” Sherlock finally moves, ready to pounce on the man in front of him. With one step, Moriarty shouts, falling onto the small staircase leading to the upstairs loft section of the flat. “No, no! Don’t you touch me! Don’t you lay a finger on me!” He tries to cower away from Sherlock’s piercing stare, when suddenly Sherlock erupts.  


“Stop it, stop it now!” Sherlock shouts at full volume, the loudest Iris has ever heard him shout. Before he can say another word, Moriarty takes off up the stairs with Sherlock, John, and Iris all chasing after him, but they are too slow. Out the bathroom window and he’s gone, Sherlock turning around and heading down the stairs, Kitty blocking his way.  


“Do you know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can _read_ you. And you. Repel. Me.” Kitty gets right in Sherlock’s face, nearly spitting the words at him. Sherlock doesn’t respond, but takes off out the door, John following and Iris giving Kitty a nice shove with her shoulder as she reaches the door.  


“That lunatic you trusted for some big scoop? You have no idea what you’ve just done.” Iris leaves before Kitty can say anything else, following the two men down the stairs and to the street. John still has some of the papers in his hand, following Sherlock as he looks at them.  


“Can he do that? Completely change his identity? Make you the criminal?” John asks.  


“He’s got my whole life story. That’s what you do, to sell a big lie. You wrap it up in a truth to make it palatable.” Sherlock paces in the street, John stopped to look at the papers in the light of the streetlamp. Iris watches Sherlock as he moves back and forth.  


“It’s your word against his.” Iris adds.  


“He’s been sowing doubt into people’s minds for the last twenty-four hours. There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that’s to...” Sherlock stops in his tracks, obviously at his conclusion but not sharing with her and John.  


“That’s to what?” Iris asks, Sherlock still not responding. “Sherlock?”  


“There’s something I need to do.” Sherlock says looking off down the street.  


“What, can we help you?” Iris asks, taking a few steps towards Sherlock.  


“No, on my own.” He says shortly, taking off down the street. John and Iris watch him.  


“What would be the last thing Moriarty needs to ruin Sherlock?” Iris asks, John flipping to more pages in his hands.  


“I have no idea, but with all this information on Sherlock she’s got a pretty strong-looking case.” John responds. Iris shakes her head as they stand under the street lamp.  


“But how? How does she have such a strong case? Moriarty can’t know all that about Sherlock, so then where did he get it?” Iris asks, a moment passing before they both turn to look at each other.  


“Mycroft.” John voices their same thought, the two taking off down to the opposite end of the street. A short cab ride lands them back at the Diogenes Club, Iris and John sneaking their way in through the back towards Mycroft’s office.  


John offers some of the pages to Iris to help reorganize them as they wait for Mycroft. Between the two of them, they piece together the lengthy article on Sherlock, including details so precise it’s astounding. The door opens and Mycroft pauses, surprised to see the two of them back in the armchairs from earlier that morning.  


“She has really done her homework, Miss Riley.” John throws over his shoulder, turning another page. “There’s things that only someone close to Sherlock could know.” Mycroft stays in the doorway for a moment before closing it behind him with only an ‘Ah.’  


“Have you seen your brother’s address book lately? There’s three names. Yours, Iris’, and mine. And Moriarty did not get any of this from the two of us.” John explains, leaning back in his chair. Mycroft starts to speak as he sits down, Iris cutting him off.  


“So, how does it work, then? Your relationship? You go out for a coffee, now and then, hmm? You and Jim? You know I was joking when I said that would be our easy, trouble-free way of fixing this, right?” Iris retorts. “Your own brother and you blabbed about his entire life to this absolute maniac?” Iris sits in disbelief, Mycroft unmoving in his reaction. After a long pause, Mycroft finally responds.  


“I never intended... I never dreamt...” Mycroft trails off.  


“This is what you were trying to tell us, isn’t it? ‘Watch his back, ‘cause I’ve made a mistake.’” John asks, setting the papers in his hands aside.  


“How did you meet him?” Iris asks, desperate to find some logic in Mycroft’s thinking.  


“People like him, we... know about them, we watch them. But, James Moriarty... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket is the ultimate weapon: a key code. A few lines of computer code that can unlock any door...” Mycroft explains with quiet admiration at the masterfulness of Moriarty.  


“And you abducted him?” John asks. “To try and find the key code?”  


“Interrogated him for weeks... He wouldn’t play along. He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up...” Mycroft takes a breath, exhaling slowly. “I could get him to talk. Just a little...”  


“But, in return, you had to offer him Sherlock’s life story. So there’s one big lie, ‘Sherlock’s a fraud.’ But people will swallow it because the rest of it is true?” Iris lays out the facts, Mycroft simply sitting there uncomfortably. John leans forward to get closer to Mycroft as he speaks.  


“Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition.” John says simply, clearing his throat before standing up from his chair to leave.  


“You wanted us to protect him, Mycroft, but there’s only so much protecting we can do when you hand a sociopath like Moriarty a loaded gun. Did you really not think this would have any consequences? Any, at all?” Iris demands, wanting an answer before leaving.  


“I’m sorry.” Mycroft manages out meekly, Iris so irate she can’t look at him anymore. John scoffs at the apology, moving to the door and holding it for Iris. “Tell him would you?” Mycroft asks quietly, Iris choosing to ignore him as she moves to the door, the two of them storming out together.  


As they reach the curb to hail a cab and try to find Sherlock, both their phones buzz at the same time. It’s a text from Sherlock, sent in a group message. _Bart’s, now. -SH_

Without another word, they hop in a cab and race over to the lab, back to the workroom where Sherlock ran all his research on the kidnapper’s footprint just hours ago. John opens the door as Iris enters and Sherlock sits on the floor with his back to the cabinets behind him, tossing a small squash ball against the counter across from him.  


“Got your message.” John offers, moving across the floor to Sherlock.  


“The computer code is key to this. If we can find it, we can use it, beat Moriarty at his own game.” Sherlock stops tossing the ball, fiddling with it in his hand instead.  


“What do you mean, use it?” John asks, Iris leaning against the counter looking down at Sherlock on the floor.  


“He used it to create a false identity. So _we_ can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook.” Sherlock answers, more sure and positive than when they last saw him.  


“So we can bring Jim Moriarty back again, brilliant!” Iris realizes, Sherlock rising as he speaks.  


“It’s somewhere in 221B, somewhere... On the day of the verdict, he left it hidden.” Sherlock leans forward against the counter with his palms splayed out, John mimicking the stance as Iris stays with her hip up against the edge.  


“What did he touch?” John asks, trying to think where the key code could be hidden.  


“An apple, nothing else.” Sherlock replies simply.  


“Did he write anything down, interact with anything else in the flat?” Iris asks, crossing her arms in front of her as Sherlock shakes his head no. John taps his fingers on the counter in thought, before pushing away and moving towards the other end of the counter, pensive. Sherlock stares at the squash ball under his palm on the counter, moving his hand back and forth. John sighing behind her pulls Iris’ focus. She turns to join him as Sherlock walks away.  


“Maybe he didn’t plant it in the flat but put it somewhere in the entryway? Like with the coats and things downstairs; somewhere Sherlock might not have seen but still in the building?” Iris asks, John pondering the idea. As he turns back to them, Iris asks Sherlock, “Do you think I should go back to your flat? I know the police will probably be waiting for you two, but not me, I could go back in and search...” Sherlock just shakes his head, John yawning as he sets himself down in a nearby chair.  


“It could be anywhere, and look like anything. It would take you hours to tear the place apart. We’ll just have to wait until the morning, for Kitty’s article to publish, and go from there.” John offers sleepily as Iris checks her watch to realize it’s almost three o’clock in the morning. Unsure of where the time went, and unsure of her next move, Iris joins John in another chair, pulling out her phone to check her messages.  


The sudden lack of adrenaline and the action-packed day leaves Iris’ eyelids heavy, drooping as she tries to prop her chin up in her hand to stay upright. The quietness of the lab pulls her down and Iris ends up asleep on her arms crossed in front of her on the counter, her coat bunched up as a makeshift pillow. It’s not until about four hours later that her phone rings, waking both her and John up with a start.  


Rubbing her eye with one hand and picking up her phone with the other, Iris has to clear her throat before she can answer properly.  


“Hello? Yes, this is she...” Iris’ eyes widen at the voice on the other line. “What, how did that happen? Is she okay? Oh, my god, yes we’ll be right there.” Iris rises quickly, grabbing her coat and shaking it out. John stands in concern, Sherlock sitting across the room with his feet up on the counter.  


“What is it?” Sherlock asks.  


“Paramedics, it’s Mrs. Hudson. She’s been shot.” Iris explains, completely stunned.  


“What? How?” Sherlock asks calmly, not at all moved by the news. John rubs a hand over his mouth in shock.  


“Probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus.” John responds, grabbing his coat and moving to the door. “Jesus, she’s dying, Sherlock. Let’s go.”  


“You two go, I’m busy.” Sherlock stays in his seat, John turning on him angrily.  


“Busy?!” John repeats.  


“Thinking, I need to think.” Sherlock looks off, sure of his decision.  


“You need to... Doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John asks, Iris still unmoving in shock. “You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.” John furthers.  


“She’s my landlady.” Sherlock replies like it’s the strangest thing in the world for him to be upset. At that, Iris moves to gently grab John by the elbow, but he shakes her off, not finished yelling at Sherlock.  


“She’s dying, you machine!” John shouts, Iris tugging on his arm again.  


“Come on John, let’s just go. It’s obvious he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He never has so why would he start now.” Iris makes eye contact with Sherlock, watching his calculating face unmoving towards anything remotely resembling emotion for Mrs. Hudson, a woman she thought they all cared deeply for. Apparently not all of them.  


“Sod this.” John stares down Sherlock, seething in his words. “You stay here if you want. On your own.” He turns to follow Iris out the door.  


“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” Sherlock replies, staring at the counter. John pauses with his hand on the doorknob.  


“No, friends protect people.” John replies, yanking the door open for Iris before closing it behind him. They race out of the building and into a cab.  


“How on earth did she get shot? I mean actually shot, paramedics on scene, taking her to the hospital...” Iris buzzes with nervous adrenaline, hoping Mrs. Hudson is still breathing. John just shakes his head and looks out the window. Iris is grateful Baker Street is so close to Bart’s, even with the early morning traffic.  


When they pull up, there is a distinct lack of any sort of ambulance or police car, Iris wondering if they already took her away before they had a chance to get there. The cab stops, Iris asking him to wait just in case they have to turn around and go to the hospital. She jumps out behind John. The front door to 221 stands open and loud drilling can be heard inside.  


Iris jogs in behind John, only to see the large man and his ladder from before doing some work on the light fixtures on the wall with a heavy drill. And beneath him, watching, stands a perfectly intact Mrs. Hudson. She jumps at the sight of them.  


“Oh, God, you made me jump.” Mrs. Hudson laughs, Iris looking to John with the same perplexed face. “Is everything okay now, with the police? Has Sherlock sorted it all out?” Mrs. Hudson asks, completely unaware of everything that’s happened in the last eight hours or so. Iris realizes this was done on purpose, her hand flying to John’s arm tightly.  


“Oh my god, he set us up.” Iris replies breathlessly, John’s face comprehending why Sherlock refused to come with them. They bolt back out to the cab, Iris glad he waited.  


“He wanted us gone so he could meet with Moriarty.” Iris huffs out crossly, upset that Sherlock played them both so perfectly. John doesn’t reply, simply urges the driver to hurry up as they race back to Bart’s.  


Once on the front street across from Bart’s, John’s phone starts to ring as they exit the cab. It’s Sherlock so John puts it on speaker as they make their way towards the main entrance, crossing around the large ambulance bay that stands between the main street and Bart’s building.  


“Hello?” John answers, Iris jogging to keep up.  


“Sherlock, are you okay?” Iris asks, the two of them almost to the entrance.  


“Turn around and walk back the way you came.” Sherlock says quickly.  


“No, we’re coming in.” John replies, Sherlock quick on his response.  


“Just do as I ask! Please.” Sherlock demands, the pleading in his voice stopping them both in their tracks.  


“Where?” John asks, the two of them moving back towards where the cab dropped them off. Iris looks around trying to figure out where Sherlock is.  


“Stop there. Okay, look up, I’m on the rooftop.” Sherlock’s voice crackles through the speaker. Iris looks up to see Sherlock standing on the edge of the roof of Bart’s, his Belstaff coat billowing out behind him in the chilly wind. The ambulance bay is about half the height of the building Sherlock stands on, blocking the street on the other side.  


“Oh god... Sherlock...” Iris covers her mouth with her hand, John squinting in the light to try and see better.  


“I... I can’t come down... so we’ll just have to do it like this.” Sherlock’s voice sounds different than any interaction Iris can remember, his silhouette tiny that high up in the sky.  


“Do what, Sherlock?” Iris asks, leaning towards the phone to hear better, not taking her eyes off Sherlock.  


“An apology... It’s all true.” Sherlock admits plainly. John asks what he means. “Everything they said about me. I... invented Moriarty.” Sherlock’s voice sounds as small as he looks, Iris in disbelief at the admission. This makes no sense.  


“Why are you saying this?” John asks, Iris wishing with all her might that Sherlock would just step back off the ledge, come down, and explain what’s going on.  


“I’m a fake.” Sherlock replies, the emotion in his voice breaking Iris’ heart.  


“Sherlock, no you’re-” Iris shakes her head, as if that would help emphasize it better for him to understand. He cuts her off.  


“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”  


“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met.” John starts, gripping the phone in his hand tightly as he holds it out between him and Iris. He continues urgently. “The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”  


“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock replies.  


“You could.” Iris replies, trying to follow John in pulling Sherlock out of this bizarre train of thought. “What about when we met? You knew I was from New York, that I came to London to find myself; we hadn’t even said two words to each other.”  


“Mrs. Hudson told me the day before you arrived, explained everything she knew about you in passing... I used it to my advantage to amaze you.” Sherlock huffs out a sad laugh, pausing for such a long moment Iris thought he’d hung up. “John... I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”  


John looks as though he wants to chuck the phone in his hand, fully not believing a word Sherlock’s saying. Iris takes the phone from him, John shaking as he stares up at Sherlock.  


“Is this all just a magic trick, Sherlock? This, you up on the roof? Because you’re not making any sense.” Iris pleads, crossing one arm across her stomach to brace herself, holding out the phone for John to still hear.  


“No, all right. Stop it now.” John shouts, taking off towards Bart’s, Iris following. Sherlock’s voice returns, frantic through the phone. Iris can see Sherlock holding out his hand towards them.  


“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” Sherlock pleads. Iris grabs John and pulls him back, his hands going up in defeat. “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?” Sherlock sounds like he’s crying, Iris still clutching onto John’s coat with her other hand.  


“Do what?” Iris asks, looking to John before they both turn to look back up at Sherlock.  


“This phone call, it’s... um... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?” Sherlock asks so quietly, Iris shaking her head.  


“No, no Sherlock, please, we can figure this out, just come down from there. Please...” Iris begs, John exhaling quickly.  


“Goodbye, Iris.” Sherlock says sadly.  


“Leave a note when?” John asks, Iris desperately trying to find something to convince Sherlock not to do what she thinks he’s about to do.  


“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock clicks to hang up the call before John can respond.  


“No, don’t-” John starts. Iris watches in horror as Sherlock lowers the phone from his ear, tossing it behind him onto the roof. Both she and John shout “Sherlock!” as loudly as they can, Iris standing in disbelief as Sherlock raises his arms out from his side, falling forward and off the edge of the building. Belstaff billowing behind him, Iris wishing with all her might that it was his dressing gown and they were back at Baker Street instead of here right now. Sherlock falls toward the asphalt below, disappearing from sight behind the ambulance bay in front of them.  


Time seems to move in slow motion as Iris and John run towards Sherlock, making their way towards the brick ambulance bay. They round the corner, catching a glimpse of Sherlock’s body crumpled on the ground. Out of nowhere a bicyclist hits John, knocking him to the ground and taking Iris out as well.  


John takes the full brunt of the hit from the bike, Iris rolling away and staring up at the sky before she can reorient herself. As they both manage to stand themselves up, there are nearly a dozen people crowding around Sherlock’s body. Nurses and medics from Bart’s along with other passersby who witnessed his fall spring into action, one man shaking Sherlock’s limp shoulder while feeling for a pulse at his neck.  


John rushes over trying to get close to Sherlock, pushing his way past the people. Iris takes a few steps to follow, but when she catches a full view of Sherlock’s face, dark curls damp with red blood pooling on the ground under him, the shock of it all takes her to her knees.  


Powerless and incapable of moving, Iris sits there watching in horror. John manages to get to Sherlock’s side, tears silently running down Iris’ cheeks as he reaches out to try and feel for a pulse at Sherlock’s wrist.  


John crumples to the ground in a couple of the passersby’s arms as he can’t find a pulse, Iris hearing his voice breaking, completely heartbroken. A couple of people from Bart’s arrive with a stretcher, Sherlock’s lifeless body being pulled from the ground and whisked off.  


As Sherlock passes in front of Iris, she sees even more blood streaked across his face, brilliant blue eyes frozen open with a stare that will haunt Iris for the rest of her life. One of his hands falls limply off the stretcher, blood dripping off his Belstaff and down his lifeless fingers.  


Iris begins to openly sob, knees throbbing on the stone beneath her. An older woman in scrubs who came out of Bart’s rushes over to kneel in front of her. Iris can’t stop the tears or the pitiful sobs that escape her lips. The kind woman wraps her arms around Iris trying to console her, Iris unable to think or move other than to sob. The nurse manages to get her up to her feet, helping Iris over to a nearby bench where John now sits stoic and unmoving.  


The woman notices Iris starting to hyperventilate, and the next thing Iris remembers is a paper bag being held over her nose and mouth, the kind woman trying to soothe her. John stays sitting in the same position, only reaching out to grab Iris’ hand, the single act of comfort he is capable of at the moment.  


His hand anchors Iris, even as she sobs and tries to control her breathing. In front of them, police cars arrive and police tape sections off the area, Lestrade arriving as well. He runs down the street, ducking under the tape and freezing at the pool of blood on the pavement. Both hands go to his face as he shakes his head in disbelief, turning to scan the area and finding John and Iris on the bench nearby. He jogs over to them, Iris and John both unable to find any words to explain.  


Seeing that they are still in perfect sight of Sherlock’s bloody landing spot, Lestrade orders an officer to drive them back to Baker Street.  


Iris doesn’t recall much of the next few days, which is exceptionally strange for her and her memory, but something about the haze of the whole ordeal blankets the exact events. Thankfully, her boss at Bart’s gives Iris time off without her asking, most everyone in the building shocked by Sherlock’s suicide. Other snippets of memories pop up, like breaking the news to Mrs. Hudson and holding her as they both cried, or Iris running out of tears in the shower, her stomach aching from sobbing for so long.  


Iris barely notices the tabloids, only catching a couple headlines while staring at the table in Mrs. Hudson’s flat a couple of days later. It seems Kitty’s story ran like planned, the details from Rich Brook exceptional in convincing everyone of Sherlock being a fraud. Next to her article are headlines of Sherlock’s suicide, unraveling his reputation and brilliance with every word. Iris can barely scan the articles without feeling sick, refusing to believe anything anymore.  


Somehow they were all wrong; the tabloids were lying and Iris knew in her heart that Sherlock had to be lying on that rooftop. But every time her mind goes down that path, trying to figure out what really happened, the memories of him falling and lying dead on the pavement flood her vision.  


Eventually, Iris has to physically jerk herself away from the memories as they knock the wind out of her each time. She starts keeping a rubber band on her wrist, snapping it deliberately anytime Sherlock’s empty blue eyes and blood-covered face fills her head. Mrs. Hudson ends up taking the rubber band away after the first day when she catches a red welt angrily bleeding on Iris’ wrist.  


Dressed in a black dress with lace at the collar, Iris stands under an umbrella with John as they watch Sherlock’s dark oak coffin lower into the soggy ground. John wraps one of his arms around Iris’ back, holding her tightly as he stoically stands watching. Mrs. Hudson sniffles next to Iris, Lestrade and Molly standing quietly beside her. Mycroft stands on the other side of the grass, far away from John and Iris, no one saying anything at all for the entire service.  


Attendance is light, Iris wondering if the six people standing here now are the only true friends Sherlock has. She does wonder why his parents are absent, one of their sons having just died, but Iris decides to let the thought go as the coffin fully lowers.  


John takes a step forward, grabbing a handful of the loose dirt and tossing it onto the coffin. He returns to Iris’ side, taking the umbrella as she steps forward to do the same. The black earth dirties her hand, moist in the rain, and Iris is unable to clean it off as she returns to John and Mrs. Hudson. Molly and Lestrade follow, Molly unable to meet Iris’ eyes, overcome with emotion and heartbreak.  


The car ride back is solemn and sad, Iris trying to wipe off the dirt onto her coat to no avail. John watches with an empty curiosity, his eyes quiet and unmoving. Mrs. Hudson hugs Iris and John tightly when they make it inside the front door, rushing off to her flat as she starts to audibly cry. John and Iris stand at the base of the stairs, unsure of what to say.  


Iris stares down at her hand, some dirt under her fingernails, memories of the coffin and then Sherlock’s eyes flashing into view. Her breathing picks up and she’s about to be lost in the memories when John’s hand takes hers warmly. He tugs it gently, holding tight as they climb the stairs. John leads Iris over to the kitchen sink, reaching for the dish soap. He lets go of her hand only to turn the warm water on, squirting some soap into his hand and then into Iris’.  


Silently, they wash their hands at the sink, Iris desperately trying to not think of Sherlock’s microscope sitting behind her on the table, or all his experiments laid out around them. Mrs. Hudson said she would go through and pack his things up, Iris unable to volunteer herself to help.  


Finally free of the dirt and slightly more grounded in her present reality, John offers her a dishtowel to dry off. John moves away to sit in his chair, removing his coat and shoes as he goes. Iris watches him from the kitchen, setting the towel on the counter behind her.  


Normally, if she had just been upstairs chatting with John while Sherlock was out, Iris would follow and sit down in Sherlock’s chair. She never did when he was in the flat, recognizing it was his and always giving him the option to flounce into it deep in thought or while plucking at his violin. But now... Iris can’t even walk towards it, instead choosing to sit on the couch, her coat draped over the arm.  


John simply stares off, barefooted in his seat, eyes fixated on Sherlock’s black leather chair. Iris finds her gaze following, neither of them moving for a good deal of time. Iris is grateful for a couple hours of no memories flashing before her eyes, but not for the stiff back her current position earns her. She stretches as a yawn sneaks up on her, John sitting up and shifting in his own chair, suddenly aware of the lapse in time. He checks his watch before sighing, head back in his hand, gaze back onto Sherlock’s chair.  


Mrs. Hudson leaving out the front door downstairs startles to two of them, John standing from his chair with a sigh, forcing himself to move. Iris stays sitting, the thought of moving or leaving the flat terrifying her. She looks to Sherlock’s empty chair, to his seat at the desk where he told them Moriarty was playing with their minds, making Lestrade and everyone else doubt him. Tears Iris didn’t think she had left well up in her eyes, overflowing down her cheeks as she begins to cry. John stops on his way to the kitchen when he notices, Iris softly sobbing on the couch.  


“It’s our fault, we didn’t... Mycroft and... He got to them all, twisted...” Iris babbles in between sobs, her arms crossed over her midsection as she rocks back and forth. John moves to sit next to her, quietly comforting her with a hand rubbing up and down Iris’ back. He manages to get one of her hands in his, tugging her to turn and look at him. Iris does, tears streaming down her face as she tries to quiet her sobbing with her other hand.  


“Shhh, just breathe, shhh.” John softly whispers, Iris trying to inhale as deep as she can before exhaling slowly. She manages two full breaths like that, before another wave of emotion hits and she dissolves into sobs again. John moves to wrap both his arms around Iris, pulling her head to the crook of his neck, trying to soothe her as best he can. The pressure from the hug and closeness to John helps, Iris’ mind still betraying her as she tries to quiet her thinking. Iris grabs John’s sweater in one of her fists, trying to anchor herself.  


“I just keep seeing it... his face, the blood, his vacant eyes...” her breath hitches as she feels the soft fleece material from John’s sweater against her cheek. “How did this happen, how did we let this happen?” John doesn’t answer any of her questions, just tries tightening his hold and rubbing up and down one of her arms. When Iris continues to babble, John just sighs, similar questions still going through his mind, but no answers in sight.  


John shifts to put both his hands on Iris’ shoulders, bracing her in front of him so he can make eye contact. Eyes red and puffy from crying, Iris reaches up to wipe her nose with the sleeve of her dress. John inhales through his nose, Iris silently following along, focusing on John’s hazel eyes instead of the bright blue ones that threaten in the corner of her mind. Iris keeps hold of the fabric in her hand, John so close and alive Iris fears if she lets go he’ll be gone just like Sherlock.  


The thought of John disappearing as well frightens Iris, her reaching up to better her grip on John’s sweater, pulling herself closer, whimpering in sadness. Her usual coping strategies for tough situations are failing Iris miserably, every neuron in her brain firing at rapid speed, overloading every thought and sensation.  


“I can’t... it’s too hard to... please, I can’t stop...” Iris manages to get out between shaky sobs, John searching her face trying to find a way to help. Iris’s eyes shift from John’s down to his mouth, realizing how close his face is to hers. Without another thought, John closes the short distance between them and kisses Iris, hoping to distract her. It works because all Iris can feel is his lips on hers, the two of them holding tightly to one another as the kiss intensifies. Insistent and frantic, the two kiss desperately trying to hang on, tears on Iris’ cheeks and even some falling down John’s face.  


John puts one of his hands behind Iris’ head, tangling in her dark hair, and pulls her closer, his lips crashing over hers. Iris pulls tighter at John’s sweater, leaning back slightly as John shifts his weight over her. Her hands move from the front of his sweater to his back, tugging at the hem, distressed noises escaping her mouth as she can’t quite pull it up. John breaks the kiss only to pull his sweater off, bringing his lips back to hers the second it’s free.  


John feels warm under her hands, the heat grounding her along with his lips as they move off her mouth and down her neck. Iris closes her eyes as she loses herself in the feeling. John’s lips are tender but frenzied as he kisses her. She sits up slightly as John’s hand reaches for the back of her dress, the zipper pulling open easily. Iris tugs the fabric forward and off her arms, the rest of the material pooling around her waist. Only in her bra, Iris brings John’s mouth back to hers as his hands move up and down her back, both finding solace in the skin-to-skin contact.  


Between the body heat and release of emotion, Iris slowly calms back down from her anxiety attack. The tension in John’s body, having escaped through his tears as well, slows him down too, softly kissing Iris with one hand cupping her cheek tenderly.  


In the calm, Iris’ logical reasoning returns, and she realizes what she and John are actually doing, causing her to pause. John pulls away, opening his eyes to see what’s wrong. Iris realizes the top of her dress is off, remembering him unzipping it but now she just feels overly exposed sitting in Sherlock and John’s flat... Or just John’s now. Iris runs a hand over her face, shaking it slightly and peeking at John behind her fingers.  


“I’m so sorry.” Iris whispers, John exhaling slowly.  


“No, don’t be. Really.” John responds, reaching for his sweater on the ground. He pulls it back on as Iris feeds her sleeves back over her arms, zipping it halfway up behind her. Fully clothed, both remain glued to the couch, unsure of what to do next.  


“I think I’m going to go now... Again, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...” Iris admits sheepishly, knowing she could have pushed John away or said no, the sadness and fear taking over and demanding more than John probably wanted to deal with right now. He shakes his head.  


“No, that was as much me as it was you, just... it’s okay. Whatever it is. It’s okay.” John stares off towards Sherlock’s chair. “I mean it’s not okay, none of this is okay.” Iris takes one of John’s hands in hers, squeezing it. John turns to look at her, patting their joined hands with his before letting go and standing up from the couch. Iris rises as well, grabbing her coat and moving to the door. John stops her as she turns her back, reaching up to zip her dress the rest of the way. Iris quietly chuckles.  


“Thank you... I, um... yeah...” Iris trails off, heading back down to her flat. Collapsing on her own bed, lips still tingling from where John kissed her, Iris wonders how in the world she ended up here. How Sherlock ended up dead, how any of this actually managed to happen. Iris lifts herself up and off her bed as she tries to busy herself with other things, taking a shower and numbly forcing herself to eat.  


Several days pass, Iris staying in her flat avoiding both John and Mrs. Hudson. She even ignores calls from Sam, only managing to text him what happened and that she’d call when she was ready. Iris does try calling Molly but gets her voicemail, hanging up before leaving a message.  


Almost a week later, Mrs. Hudson knocks on Iris’ door, asking if she’d come with her and John to lay flowers at Sherlock’s grave, now that the headstone is finally finished. Iris agrees, waiting out front for John to join them on the curb.  


John makes his way on foot from somewhere else down the street, Iris moving to hail a cab as Mrs. Hudson carries the flowers. They climb in and Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, takes the middle seat, Iris wanting to give John some space, unsure of how he’s feeling.  


Mrs. Hudson and Iris both hold bouquets, John leading the way as they cross the cemetery towards Sherlock’s gravestone. The three stand there silently, the black marble listing Sherlock’s name seeming unbelievable to them. Mrs. Hudson lays her flowers down, patting the marble with her handkerchief in hand. She turns back to join them under the tree.  


“There’s all this stuff. All the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don’t know what needs doing... I thought I’d take it to a school, would you...” Mrs. Hudson turns to John, who shakes his head.  


“I can’t go back to the flat again. Not at the moment.” John responds, Iris wondering where he’s been the past week or so. Mrs. Hudson loops her arm through John’s, leaning on him as he stares at the headstone.  


“Maybe Molly can see if there’s any use for it at Bart’s.” Iris offers quietly. Mrs. Hudson nods and silence falls over them for a few minutes.  


“I’m angry.” John admits, breaking the silence.  


“It’s okay, John. There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel.” Mrs. Hudson responds, trying to go along with the angry feeling at the moment. “All those marks on my table and the noise,” she complains, “firing guns at half-past one in the morning. Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there’s food.” Mrs. Hudson adds, Iris smiling in fondness rather than irritation. “And the fighting, drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!” Mrs. Hudson starts to cry slightly behind her anger, John stopping her.  


“Yeah, listen, I’m not actually that angry, okay?”  


“The head in the fridge was rather funny if you ask me.” Iris says flatly next to them, trying to muster up the emotion for a joke.  


“Well, I’ll leave you both alone to, you know...” Mrs. Hudson turns and walks back towards the entrance, John and Iris standing there, awkwardly. Iris, remembering the flowers in her hand, moves to place them next to Mrs. Hudson’s bouquet. Kneeling before the gravestone, Iris brushes her hand over the top, staring at Sherlock’s name in all caps.  


“You will never be a fraud to me, no matter what anyone says, you hear? I’m sorry we couldn’t fix it in time... I’m so sorry... You are an incredibly magnificent man and I will forever be grateful to have known you. If there was anything to be done to bring you back, I...” Iris trails off, standing before her emotions get the better of her. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”  


She figures John will want a moment by himself, so she passes him to follow after Mrs. Hudson. Just as her hand passes his, he reaches out, stopping her briefly with a squeeze, gaze still on the headstone. Iris looks down at their joined hands, offering a small squeeze back before John lets go.  


As she walks across the lawn of gravestones, Iris’ phone rings, a number she doesn’t recognize. “Hello?”  


“Hi, is this Iris Moretti? My name is Susie Alcott, Melinda’s granddaughter.”  


“Yes, this is Iris, is everything okay?”  


“Well, not exactly. My grandmother had a stroke just yesterday, she’s still alive but she’s in intensive care at the moment.”  


The news knocks the wind out of Iris, her severely exhausted emotions running on fumes.  


“Oh my god, that’s terrible to hear, I’m so sorry.” Iris offers as sincerely as she can.  


“We’re all pretty shocked, trying our best just to keep believing she’ll wake up, but it’s not looking good.” Susie responds, Iris closing her eyes at the thought of another possible death so soon. And with Melinda gone so will be any chance she has of finding her birth family. They sent some letters out, but it’s been weeks and there hasn’t been any response.  


“Is there anything I can do? She was so helpful to me, I can bring your family food, anything, really.” Iris says, watching John at Sherlock’s gravestone in the distance.  


“That’s actually why I’m calling. She has a few notes left around the shop with your name on them and she had told me a bit about who you were searching for. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of responses from people, and I wanted to let you know what happened in case you wondered where she went...” The sadness in Susie’s voice is difficult to hear, Iris trying to fight back more tears that threaten to spill over.  


“No, I completely understand. Thank you for calling me. We both knew it was a long shot even trying to track some of these jewelers down, and now... honestly, I’m the last person you should be worrying about. Give Melinda my best well wishes, and I truly hope things turn around for her.” Iris tries to hide the disappointment and further heartbreak from Susie, who ends the call just as John joins her across the way. Shoulders back and jaw tight, Captain Watson stands before her cut off from any emotion Iris witnessed in him after the funeral. He nods at her, looking off for Mrs. Hudson down by the main gate.  


“I think I may head back to New York City.” Iris blurts out, phone still clutched in her hand. With the news of Melinda adding to everything with Sherlock, and now the idea of John not being back at Baker Street, Iris can’t bear the thought of being here alone.  


“Oh? What... What about finding your birth family?” John asks, surprise and a hint of sadness bleeding through his calm tone.  


“Melinda’s granddaughter just called me. She’s had a stroke and it’s not looking good. I don’t have the mental capacity to process this all right now... Did you move out of Baker Street?” Iris shifts, realizing she wanted to clarify what he said to Mrs. Hudson.  


“Yes... A few days ago actually... I wasn’t sure if I should have knocked on your door...” John trails off, his confirmation cementing her plan to head back to America.  


“It would have been nice, but I understand why you didn’t.” Iris replies, looking off.  


“I’m sorry about Melinda. I know how excited you were in the possibilities she had for you.” John offers as they make their way closer to Mrs. Hudson.  


“It was thin to begin with, I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.” Iris shrugs. “It’s all just too much right now. I need to leave, like you did.”  


“I just changed flats, not bloody continents.” John’s attempt at a joke earns a hollow laugh from Iris.  


“True... but if I can’t work they’ll pull my visa... and I can’t go back to Bart’s...” Iris trails off, working every muscle she has to keep her memory present and not slipping back to her last time at Bart’s hospital.  


“I understand.” John responds, joining with Mrs. Hudson as they climb back into a cab.  


Mrs. Hudson leaves John and Iris on the curb of Baker Street, John firmly planted on the sidewalk outside, unmoving towards the front door. The cab pulls away and they stare at each other, unsure of what to say.  


“I guess... I guess this is goodbye?” John offers, turning so the front door is just out of his line of sight, choosing the street behind Iris instead.  


“I guess so. I’ll still have the same phone number if you want to call... Or if you’re ever in America let me know, I’ll show you around Manhattan.” Iris feels awkward, goodbyes have never been her strong suit, but this is definitely unmarked territory.  


“I’ll make sure to do that.” John pauses, a moment passing between them. “Take care of yourself, Iris.”  


“You too, John. And thank you.” Iris adds, John huffing out a laugh.  


“For what?”  


“For everything. For... for including me on your adventures. You and Sherlock,” Iris swallows at his name, gathering herself before continuing, “you and Sherlock made me feel alive, like I had a purpose somewhere in this world. And even if it all failed and we failed Sherlock, I know I am a better person after meeting the two of you.” Iris pauses before adding, “Even if I managed to get kidnapped a time or two.”  


John stays stoic and put together while Iris speaks, only breaking into a small smile at her kidnapping quip. The two hug, a genuine true friend hug, both taking a beat or two longer than usual to soak up the last time they’ll see each other for who knows how long. Before they part, Iris turns her head to plant a small kiss on John’s cheek. They separate, Iris watching John as he heads off down the street, offering a slight wave as he turns back for one last look.  


Iris heads inside, going into her flat to start packing, and to try to figure out how she’s going to explain to Mrs. Hudson that she’s leaving. Packing takes Iris the rest of the day, as she also cleans the flat, trying to leave it nice for a possible new tenant when she goes.  


It’s strange to see her whole life packed back up into her two large suitcases, the flat around her looking empty and unlived in. Iris finds a last-minute flight home the next morning, deciding to rip the band-aid off and leave now before she changes her mind. With only ten hours left in London, Iris knocks on Mrs. Hudson’s door to tell her.  


The exchange goes as well as Iris could hope, Mrs. Hudson offering anything and everything she can to try and keep Iris from leaving. There are tears and a bit of begging, Iris almost changing her mind twice. But one glimpse of the papers on the kitchen table with Sherlock’s face and the memories return... And she knows she just cannot stay.  


Mrs. Hudson makes her a special dinner, something warm and filling to last her on the plane. She promises to call often and eventually make the trip over to visit once things have calmed down. The night is sad but a final hug from Mrs. Hudson prepares Iris for the long road back to New York City.  


In the cab ride to the airport, Iris realizes she doesn’t actually have a plan for when she gets back to the city. She hasn’t even told Sam, not having been able to call him back like she said she would. Iris does try calling Molly in the cab, only to get her voicemail again, awkwardly leaving a message of how she was leaving and sorry she couldn’t say goodbye in person. She would have loved to hug Molly one last time, but this was for the best.  


The flight is long, Iris trying to sleep but it’s no use. Eventually, the skyline she knows so well comes into view out her window, New York City laid out in full view below. On the curb waiting for a taxi, the differences in sound and smell disorientate Iris. The yellow taxi pulls up, thick Italian-American accent from the driver as he complains about the weight of her luggage, Iris sliding into the back seat and giving the only address she knows she can go.  


Having spent so many years and so much time in Washington Heights, the familiarity of it all is soothing, though it doesn’t quite feel like home anymore. The taxi driver deposits her and her suitcases on the curb, Iris sitting on the staircase to Sam’s building. Being only late afternoon, Iris knows Sam will be out at work for a bit longer.  


She passes the time people-watching, glad the memories that resurface are experiences from before she moved to London. A tall man with a long dark coat passes across the street, and almost, for a split second, Iris thinks it’s Sherlock. But of course, it can’t be, though that’s all it takes for the flood of memories, Iris shutting her eyes tightly and leaning forward onto her knees. A few deep breaths calm her down, and she looks up just in time to see Sam. She drops her messenger bag off her lap and stands, stopping Sam in his tracks.  


“Iris?!” Sam asks, frozen mid-step. Iris crosses her arms around herself comfortingly, offering a small smile, tears welling up in her eyes.  


“Mind if I crash with you for a bit?" Iris starts to cry as Sam envelopes her in a tight hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is all I have written at the moment, but I have been brainstorming/working on starting the next chapter this week! Thank you to everyone who has clicked on this fic and given it any amount of time, I really really cannot thank you enough! 
> 
> *SPOILER* The graphic charater's death is Sherlock's when he jumps off the roof of Bart's, so there's blood and death (though I don't think I've written it gory at all, I just want to be upfront to those who need it!)
> 
> If you can, please leave some kudos, I still can't believe almost 30 people clicked on this! Thank you!!
> 
> 3/3/21 Update: THE NEXT CHAPTER IS FINISHED! I swear, right when I'm about to finish editing and post, life decides to get in the way. *cries* But it should be posted soon!

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter has been posted! Officially in progress on Part Two, make sure to check it out!


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